Paroxysm of ...
The following essays are from a website I maintained last year. I am simply moving them here so all my writings are in one place. If you are new give them a look. If you are an older fan browse, I enjoyed a few of them as I was preparing to move them.
Resolutions or Revelations (Originally published 1/29/12)
It is nearing the end of January and I find myself panicking because I have not made any resolutions. Then I waiver and think is this a big deal either way? A backward glance of the last year makes me realize I have the focus of an OCD twelve-year-old made worse by a surplus of caffeine and nicotine. The problem with Resolutions is it is acknowledging the deficiencies in your life or character.
I need a plan and/or some guidelines or I am going to end up like one of the characters of a great book I read this year “On the Road”; drift less, penniless, and self-isolated. Of course, the inner secret here is I am envious of that kind of randomness of just enjoying the ride. Reality always has a way of breaking through the clouds of daydreams though.
The last year has been quite a journey of self-discovery and battling past demons. I started the New Year in the bliss of love with one of the best friends I have ever had. At the same time, the silent echoes of my missing children devastated me as they struck out on their own. This happens to all women I know but I am one that mother who lived and identified myself through them. Donald and Tammi offered me a geographical change and I did a reality check on the destination I was counting on. Future regrets were what finally made me pack the U-Haul.
I spent the summer with the artistic youth of Indy’s music talent as an Intern for IndyConcerts.com. I met wonderful people, struggled with deadlines, learned the city a bit (I still get lost way too much), and found hidden places to patronize. In the process, I had to say goodbye to past connections, which is always hard for me. As much as I push myself towards change, there are certain people or things that are touchstones because I always thought they would be there. This is the selfish part of me, I grasp the knowledge of my need to continue forward but I am surprised when others want to walk away from my life for their own agenda.
Finally employed, I move into my own place next week. This brings more challenges and the need of a plan. Guidelines or let us call them resolutions today.
I can grab a pen and paper and scribble the usual; Quit Smoking, Budget, Lose Weight. This year though when my list was in front of me, I think it actually mocked me. These are not real goals, these symptoms of my deficiencies. The only way to grow is to move forward, so I will be brutally honest here. I have been treading water dreaming about the changes I wanted, but terrified to fail. The revelation of my faux journey was on New Year’s Eve when I admitted how tired I was. Physically and mentally because my legs have been moving for years but I am still on the damn doorstep.
I will guarantee you I will screw many things up this New Year. I will spend long nights with Law and Order playing the endless background loop and pick at regrets. I will throw full out pity parties complete with confetti just because I sometimes like it messy. My resolution this year is I will get of the damn doorstep; next year this time, I hope to be able to report some progress. I am shooting for the world this year; but I will be happy to make it to the front gate.
The Ten Commandments of Shopping and/or Relationships (Originally published 7/14/11)
I am beginning to master the savvy shopping techniques so maybe I can learn to apply them in real life. Many a times I have gravitated towards that shiny or eye popping article of clothing or shoes (of course) and tried to make it fit. I even force myself to wear such items a couple of times before I admit a bad fit. Either it was not flattering or it just caused too much pain.
That last sentence is kicking my ass today. If I am getting choosier with under a dollar articles of clothing goodwill specials, why can I not be as kind to my heart as my closet? These clothes and shoes promise to accentuate my random personality and make me smile when I reach for them. Yet when I put them on, I only get pinched toes, heels rubbed raw, or my flaws accentuated.
Soooo, come on if you are a consistent reader of mine you can make the leap here with me. If I demand this much from my wardrobe, why it is I do not have enough self-respect to demand it from a fellow human being? Especially if that person professes to love and care for me?
I have been knocked around this relationship game long enough to get the jest of the pattern. My outrageousness attracts men who are pretty damn conservative. Is this the yin and yang of life working at its best? I used to think so, for while I poked fun at their rigid patterns I also enjoyed the stability I do not possess. This is the woman in me I am certain, to be able to admire what is foreign to my life and not be offended or take it personal. The same cannot be said for the opposite sex.
Even while they embrace me and go on my crazy jaunts of frivolousness, they keep withdrawn so I do not taint their order. It is as if they enjoy the day trips but sure in hell are not going to invest in the full-blown vacation. I am too much of a liability especially as they are looking forward to their relaxing golden years.
I used to think if I tried enough on, I would find someone brave enough to take a permanent journey. Now though, I am reassessing what it is going to take to make me happy. I want rules, not ten commandment fear for your soul rules instead more of an order of protection to my heart.
The Ten Commandments of Shopping and/or Relationships
1. You shall not love your order more than me.
2. Your to do list is your shrine not mine. If you want to worship it, do it on your own time not when with me.
3. You shall not point out my flaws on a consistent basis. I do not let you see my roll my eyes every time you recheck your list.
4. Remember when it is our day all we are required to do is enjoy. There does not have to be a ten-page synopsis on where it will all lead. At our age, future years may be asking too much.
5. Honor our differences. There must be a reason for the chemistry. Do not think your intelligence is higher than the creator who made us tick. If it works, do not try to fix it.
6. Do not try to kill what scares you. The attraction was the whole of the person, not just the parts you like.
7. Ahhh, the scarlet A commandment. This is not that hard, if you do not want monogamy do not profess something you do not feel. As maturing adults, other arrangements can be made. We are the keepers of the rulebook these days; you do not have to lie to get laid.
8. It is all about honesty. Not just to your partner but yourself. If it is uncomfortable to you, do a favor to all that is involved, and keep moving.
9. If there is a problem, tell the one you with whom chose to share a life. Not your support system of used to be’s and potential wanna be’s.
10. When you want to fuck the next one on your list, have the courtesy to close the door behind you. I will use my Louby’s as an example; you think they wanted to be attached to a long legged skinny ass blonde when they were sitting in the showroom, instead of in my bedroom? The blonde passed them up and so now, they are my prized possession. Maybe I do not have the legs but I do make sure they are appreciated for how special they are.
I know I will continue to be attracted towards men who do not match me just as I am to those peep toe shoes that pinch my feet into a perpetual Charlie horse. I am counting on shopping experience to kick in from now on. After trying you on, I plan on being able to look in the mirror, reluctantly putting you back on the shelf, and walking away. “Sorry dude, you make my ass look big”
No Swimming Necessary (Originally Published 7/3/11)
I am having a delicious moment. I have never been able to swim, in fact water in my face panics me in a life threatening way. Yet I love the water. I like a lake or river and after adjusting to the icy temperature, I float with my eyes closed. The muffled sound of the water and the drift is liberating. It is akin to going to the altar of mother earth, saying take me, cleanse me and offer salvation.
This is where I am today…
I should not be. I am still unemployed. Tired of being dependent and am getting to the point of realizing I will finish this life on my own. This knowledge is hard for the little girl inside who never quit believing in fairytales. Other days this stress makes me anxious, bitchy, and sometimes even weepy. Second-guessing myself, I try to think what areas of my life I would compromise to avoid this inevitable outcome.
Though for this moment, and isn’t that what life really is, just little snapshots piled up to make the final album, I am just drifting with my eyes closed. My world when I allow it to encompass me is such a beautiful place. Thankful for my ignorance, I am grateful of my inconsistent will to shape it to perfection. The rough edges give it color.
The love of my lives, my children, who proved even flawed people, can make a perfect vessel. Somehow, they picked the good their parents gave them out of all the mistakes made and have the substance to make their own choices. Instead of fear, they inspire me as they struggle to be true to themselves.
All those courageous people I love in my life what a buffer they have been, cheering me on even when they do not agree with my lifestyle. The eclectic mix of friends and lovers fill the empty holes in my soul. Even those who I am no longer in contact can make me smile when I think of how they enhanced my life.
Then there are the creations of total strangers. The music, movies, and books I have ingested into my brain. Random pieces of other’s dreams have hodgepodged to become my philosophy, making me included instead of an interloper.
Today I am drifting. My eyes closed, my breathing measured, and I offer my self-control as a sacrifice. Light is playing on top my eyelids to illuminate my way. I have become insignificant just another piece of flotsam on top of the water. Yet as slight as I acknowledge my presence to be, the world has put before me such treasures for my pleasure.
No there is no castle, kingdom, or white knight in my future. Nor will I die a penniless waif from a Dickens novel. My riches are in people, experiences, and the ability to fall in love with nature’s dance. This makes me marvel how fortunate I am. We all are going to close our eyes as we draw our last breath. I think of the flashback that projects on the insides of my eyelids. Yes I will die a very rich woman because I have never learned to swim.
Life’s Excess (Originally Published 6/27/11)
Hello Again! This place is dusty, I know, but I am going to try to be more active here in the future. My problem is I am obsessive when I start any new project. For those that do not know, I received the opportunity to be an intern for IndyConcerts. Now I go to three to five concerts a week, interview bands and review shows. It is a win win; I am meeting wonderful creative people and hearing some excellent new music. I love this, but it highlights’ my time-management deficiencies. This is a self-improvement goal that still needs work. Now on to what has really been festering in my soul lately.
This all started a couple of years back when I was intrigued by an underground movement of living efficiently in small spaces. Slowly it turned from a passing curiosity to a plausible goal. When I looked up Tiny Tumbleweed Houses, saw my 114 square feet dream house; two-story, and perfect front porch, I fell in love.
Whenever I get an idea lodged sideways in my mind, I will tell one and all. Loved ones to potential serial killers walking by are going to hear my newest grand plan. Met with resistance to these ideas, I often get defensive. If it is logical to me, what the hell is your problem?
I guess the most general opposition is what you do with your things. At my age, there is usually a lifetime of accumulation. Thankfully, I can say with time as a buffer, I lost 23 years of my life excesses in the divorce. After that, it is easy for me to build that Goodwill pile.
Yet 114 square feet? Sometimes before I sleep, I tick off what would have to go. The hardest would be my DVD’s, books, and CD’s. Yet these days most media can be electronically stored. I am also decorating in my head, experimenting with ways to use my shoes and costume jewelry to accessorize my house so they are a multi-tasking necessity.
Once I mentally packed my belongings in my dream house, still being met with opposition, I realized my house on wheels is more than discarding items. This is a lifestyle choice. What else would I have to glean from my life? Are people, past dreams, and desires potential items eligible for recycling?
Take one more step with me please. If I am willing to give up a major chunk of my life, is my old-fashioned ideology next? Does more than my outward environment need downsized? Internally do I need to empty up some rooms?
It is not just the dollhouse I crave. It is the act of being self-supporting and able to pull up on a whim and explore the wondrous world I live in. I want to be an active participant as I observe. The self-absorption and worrying about other people’s actions as if I have some control over them, take up too much room in my life.
If the crazy plan of mine ever comes to fructuation, I want to greet it with a clear head and no apologies. What was sorted off to the goodwill pile is still loved and cherished. Yet as I prepare for what could be my last great adventure some things are not going to fit. I refuse to see this as a loss.
Everything I have held in my hands, admired for its beauty, and shared my space with; has been a much-needed addition in my life. I like to think it is equivalent to viewing the beauty of a national landmark. The view steals your breath and never leaves your memories. This does not mean you have to tuck it in your pocket and take it home.
Acne, Wrinkles, and Gratitude (Originally Published 5/17/11)
It has been a bit of a writing hiatus. Not that I have not had ideas or have not been writing. I started my internship this week so I have been doing band bios, articles, and interviews. Last week, well last week I was wading through murky mental grounds.
Along came my Yoda like friend Rog with a suggestion to write about gratitude. You know how sometimes good advice, motivating quotes, or Pollyannaism just pisses you off sometimes? Well I was almost there, but I kind of like Yoda and realize if something sits on top long enough, it just might soak in. Like a good body balm.
So now, I have Gratitude to ponder. On a world scale, yeah I am kicking ass. I am relatively healthy, housed, and feed. My shoe collection can shine up pretty damn good still. The offspring are all rocking in their own worlds. Yup life aint bad.
Gratitude. A short story of mine published a couple weeks back. I have my internship, which is a blast by the way, and I have fought off the panic so far. I am writing most days so I am stepping forward.
Gratitude. I have a zit the size of a nuclear fallout zone on my eyebrow; it complements the wrinkles under my eyes well. The gray is coming in more these days. If I had a real paying job, I would offer cash for the sandman to quit fucking around and visit me more often. Relationship problems? I would say it is really a problem of means and geography at this point.
I AM thankful when it all comes down to it. The Creator, Mother Earth, my Maker, or the big Yoda in the sky who made me from a handful of dirt made sure there was some grit in there. I am sure I feel it in the membranes in my head as my thinking mechanics are grinding they have this abrasiveness to keep if nothing else the smirk on my face.
I have never been much of a first placer. I do not have that kind of focus. Usually though, I can wear down them fuckers down.
Yup I am grateful!
My Personal Bluebeard’s Closet (Originally Published 5/9/11)
It is hard not to gain self-knowledge when this is the vessel I reside. It is like living in a house for forty-four years. After all those years, you know every floor that slopes, which window is drafty, and the faucet that drips loudly at three in the morning. Yet in every human domicile, there is probably a Bluebeard’s closet.
Throughout my life, I have found it easy to blame my current Bluebeard for keeping the keys away from me. It is a repeated pattern of me charming a critical demanding fall guy to be the keeper of my nightmares. Yet in the wee early mornings, I would sneak the key back to enter my room of demons.
Hanging on the walls, are not curious wives but unfulfilled dreams in their gore of non-fructuation. I can take a stick to prod each stiffened preserved corpse and give you the name of the person whom I hold responsible for its demise. Leaving before dawn with cold bare feet and stinking of death, I sometimes feel revived. The mentality of independence is a siren call of what I could do if I kept the keys myself.
The starting over process is easy as is the discarding of old habits; loves. No one needs to know of the doomed closet, a wide smile glosses anything. Even I am almost in ignorance of the bad memory of stalemate as I take a fresh path - back to where I started.
For it stands to reason, this is my dwelling; my world - I am the keeper of the keys. Over the years, I have just made a copy then pressed it into the unsuspecting palm and whispered save me. The carnage has been by my own hands, I have strangled the life out of possibilities.
Of late, I visited the cold mausoleum of past dreams with weariness. It is not wisdom but exhaustion, which demands the realization; the last hook on the wall in this room is for the proprietor. The more locks I put on the door, brokenness forever preserved.
It is more than throwing away the padlock, the hinges need taken off the door. Light and moving air can decompose the corpses until swept up as just another dusty room. If the corpses are free, the haunting will cease. Salvation no longer needed.
Missing Lipstick and Other Character Flaws (Originally Published 5/3/11)
Really? This is what I was asking myself when I was trying to prepare for an important appointment and I could not find my lipstick. Now I am not like most women with their collection of makeup. I after buying a couple of near misses and this is what I use until it is gone or yes, you guessed it, I lose it.
There I was looking at the bathroom counter and seeing my makeup lined up in its appropriate order. Foundation, eye shadow, mascara, eyeliner, lip liner, and no lipstick, I know that blank space was mocking me. Now I would have gone without but I had already applied the lip liner. I looked in my purse for hundredth time before I gave up and applied a second choice.
If it was as simple as misplacing an item, I would have let it go. Yet it was as if this little tube had turn into a neon-blinking arrow to point out what a mess I have made with my life. I painted on my lips went about my day but could not ignore that feeling of inadequacy I had hit head on.
Chaotic, moody, indecisive, messy, oh the flaws are too numerous and discouraging to write down. Most of the time I can ignore them or justify this is just threads that make up the whole. Sometimes though I am overwhelmed and know I need to make a commitment to some serious changes.
As a society, inundated by the possibility of perfection, we end up feeling inferior. Self-help books promise to make us sane and better people. Decorating books can make our house seem like we have nothing better to do than build a showcase home. Cooking shows stretch our imagination and have us trying to replicate gourmet meals on the table. As the information highway parks into our offices and living rooms, remind us that perfection is just within a mouse click. We mimic experts in their fields and think we too can maintain this level. For me personally, I am always a tad off from these standards.
I hear all my friends laughing at that last line, because I have always been a ‘tad off’. Maybe that is my specialty, the skewered way I look the world we share and myself. I am a believer we all were born with a special skill that defines who we are. What we are not born with is the courage to believe in ourselves.
I believe in fairytales, in my family and friends, in the human capacity to do the right thing, in magic and tomorrow is always going to be a better day. Do I believe in myself though? I know I have the right parts and one hell of a support system. It’s just sometimes like my missing lipstick, I misplace my mental happily-ever-after manual.
Then I drop off the grid and have a few hundred shadow boxing matches with doubt and optimism being the main event. What I am beginning to realize is it not the perfection I need to achieve it is the participation. For sometimes I am so caught up with always putting my best foot forward I am paralyzed.
I do not think I am unique. I think we all struggle with these feelings, it is just we all have different ways of coping. My way is not ideal I know and I could feel superior by pointing out there are more destructive means to digress. This is one stretch of the journey I have to do without pointing fingers of blame. I have to keep walking even if it is in erratic missteps. This one flaw does need changed and removed from my life.
As for the lipstick? I found it later that night, in my purse, where it was supposed to be when not in the makeup drawer, just well concealed. I guess the moral of the story is I am where I am supposed to be in life too.
The Pursuit of Happiness (Originally Published 4/25/11)
I caught myself this past week, even as moving forward with personal goals, looking longingly at settling. It is not hard to back slide and blame it on circumstances. We all have personal demons to blame for our stunted growth. Somewhere along this line of thought, the Declaration of Independence kept haunting me.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
These words did a singsong beat on my brain until I wanted to drive to Monticello and have a heart to heart with our third president, Thomas Jefferson. How dare he give me this option.
Quick history lesson here, bear with me this is necessary. Thomas Jefferson was the major writer of the Declaration of Independence even though greatly influenced by the Virginia Declaration of Rights. He was our third president, the creator of manifest destiny, the purchaser of the Louisiana Purchase, our first Republican, the first believer of partisanship in congress, an inventor, farmer, amateur architect, avid reader and writer, and probably a good case study on ADHD.
I think he was a dreamer, and wanted it all. Yet due to the human condition, our wants and needs do not always coincide with the actual world. Jefferson was a widower in 1782, the President of a young up and coming nation from 1801 to 1809, and was very influential in our nation’s policies until the day he died. He also fell in love with his wife’s half-sister and servant and fathered six children with her.
Am I being presumptuous when I say he loved Sally Hemings? Here is my argument for my romantic inclinations. This was one powerful dude in his day; you think he could not get more convenient socially acceptable action? He let two of his children “escape” and freed the remaining two living children in his will upon his death. I am the perpetual romantic; I am calling this love.
Thomas Jefferson was a passionate man. He penned many article articles on the absolute rights of individual man yet he hid his secret family away on Monticello. In 1802 when his secret became public knowledge, he remained silent and let the public form their opinions.
Now 235 years later, I have been pondering the very essence of the meaning of the pursuit of happiness. The key here is the word “pursuit”. We are not guaranteed happiness just the opportunity to pursue it. Furthermore, as the words proclaim this is not a national right it is the right of our Creator. Let us not start the conversation of wasted gifts. Unfortunately, there is not a manual on what makes us happy, it is a very individualized journey we take and we have the right to jump rails and settle for the almost.
As I write this today, I have the realization, I have never been an almost girl. I have walked away from situations that could have made me content but not passionate about my life. I never want to quit pursuing all that makes me happy.
I think of Jefferson lying on his deathbed surrounded by those who loved him though he would not publicly acknowledge them. Did this overachiever have a twinge of anguish? Do we all have this same sense of unaccomplishment in some area of our lives in the end? I know I will, as I already have to walk softly among the explosive regrets in my head. The other alternative is to quit trying and that I think would be the most contrite error.
Unguarded Dreaming is Dangerous (Originally published 4/21/11)
I dream in epic proportions. In my dreams, I am brave, confident, and outspoken. I never dream of money, possessions (All right sometimes I am wearing awesome shoes), or castles. I dream of my passions, desires, and love.
Now though I am considering putting in suggestive measures to shake up my dream world. If I cover my walls with posters of convertible red two seaters or designer shoes, I could settle into a comfort zone. Material dominions could be much more manageable these days.
Ownership of things is income and lifestyle appropriate if you are a reasonable person. Dreams of the intangibles though may have you reaching for things you will never possess. Then you begin to question your own self. If this desire is unattainable what is wrong with me? Should not dreams be boundless with barely a hint of possibility?
Too many times, I wake up with a pit; I know I will never acquire the object of my want/need. As the day progresses I optimistically do the diagrams of the trade offs it would take. It is a doable option, for the most part. Yet I cannot do the dreaming for the other half of this equation.
If there is no will or commitment for the same goal then why I am I laying the groundwork? I do not even think there is blame to place either. I think it is the fallacy of dreaming.
Keep it simple. Desire what is possible to hold in your hand or at least wax lovingly. Objects replaced as their love wanes or wear out is an option when it is a thing to be replaced.
My heart is ready for some calm waters. The strain of trying to dream wants into reality is becoming painful enough to cause nightmares. Could it be there is just a need for the natural progression? Let it just happen and try to pick up the pieces again?
Tonight I will vision my Alfa Romeo and Christian Louboutin; then I can dream of jetting the world in style. This fantasy is just as unattainable to me. Yet I doubt this delusion will make my heart hurt in the morning.
Lacings of a Corset and the Unraveling of Family (Previously Published 4/20/11)
I know, I know; I covered the red satin corset yesterday but I apparently did not purge it out of my brain. It is still tempting me but I found another con to add to my list. If I were to purchase the desired object who would lace me up?
This thought immediately slingshots me to an evening with Tammi (Sister-in-law by marriage, but friend and sister by choice) with us building our infamous fire and conversing about random social ideas on the patio. That night we were wistfully conversing how families used to have three or more generations in the same house.
Our children have grown and scattered to pursue their interpretations of the American Dream. They are all good kids and throw us a crumb via text, face book updates or photos, and even call; but we miss their physical presence in their lives. Just as we miss the connection of other family members, yes even the annoying ones, because they really know who we were.
I know this is probably a foreign idea to this era of materialism when empty nesters live in a four bedroom with a vaulted ceiling entry for the Christmas tree and three plus cars in the garage. Yet there was a time when three generations functioned under the roof of a two-bedroom house. Maybe this was the lure of the communes of the sixties due to the influx of the suburbia movement in the fifties.
I think today’s social media is a form of communes. We can check on our friends by either hitting the like button or retweet. We can visit our page and let everyone on our friends list know we are alive and still viable. This gives us the satisfaction of being a member of the human tribe.
With our successful careers, our material testimonies, and our packed schedules we want to be on Santa’s good girl list. As we take on responsibility, we know we are a productive addition to society, not dead beats. Yet, we are lonely and tired.
When we had to stack family members like cordwood to fit in a ready to burst dwelling and thin our meals with water we had a familial connection as a payoff. Often poverty was the commonality. Even though dreams were probably of living in the suburb with everyone having his or her own bedroom, the everyday functionality of family had to be an asset.
Tammi and I were sitting on the patio enjoying the warmth of our fire thinking how fun it was to have someone to talk to as we did dishes together or just chat about random things. We both had children and husbands to talk to way back when but it was not lost on us sometimes we were lonely. Now if we had our mom and/or grandmas in the same house as we were going through these trying and uncertain years, it would have been an asset not just another mouth to feed. To share the joys and tears of a family, this should be the dream we desire. Of course, sometimes we wish for company just for selfish reasons, like someone to lace up my corset.
The Inexplicable Complications of a Corset (Originally Published on 4/19/11)
A couple of weeks ago, Donald (my brother) and I were checking out Fountain Square in Indianapolis. This is an area where there is arty revival going on. I of course was in love. We walked up and down the sidewalk a little too late because most shops closed at five. Indy Swank was opened though and we jaywalked so they would not close before we entered.
I am like a magpie when I shop, I flit around as shiny things or odd creations catch my attention. There was an abundance of things to shout ‘me first’ in this eclectic mix of vintage and local arts store. Almost missed by me was a red corset hanging on the wall, which transfixed me.
A corset, what could be more appealing to me at this time of my life? This could be attributed to my long last acceptance of my own sexuality or maybe a form of structure in my haphazard lifestyle. It could also just be a solution to this jiggle of an aging body. Regardless of the appeal, I know I want one.
Poverty has a great way of forcing pondering your desire for material things. If it is not a five-dollar purchase, I need to consider the pros and cons. Now a corset would give me a waist, probably not the Scarlett O’Hara eighteen-inch waist unless magically injected with rebar. I always enjoy dressing up to feel sexy and if I avoid the mirrors, I can believe my own hype. These are the pros.
The cons are much more interesting at this point. If I want to go all out and put on my thigh high body shaping black polka dot nylons, wiggle into my black girdle like panties, and then top it off with that red satin corset, where does the fat go? I mean seriously ladies, squirm into your favorite tight jeans, and lie day on the bed to zip and button them, and then look in the mirror. I do not know about you but I have a muffin top that could nourish a third world country.
Would it go down to my feet so I could not fit into my favorite cute but going to kill me feet shoes? Or maybe up to give me sexy pouty lips like Ally McBeal‘s? Would I be able to sit down with all this constriction? Better yet would I have to by a new outfit because all my other clothes would be two sizes too big, okay that goes up there in the pro side.
Delving deeper into this need to know journey, what if I met a sexy possible Mr. Right? Could he sue me for misrepresentation? I mean eventually there would be that intimate moment; would my stomach, ass, and thighs be folded accordion style under the pressure? Should I only pursue a man with a fondness for polka?
With the desire of an addition to my closet, I have found out once again there is a flipside to everything. Is this the sign of aging? Where you see something so delicious you have to reach out and stroke it but then walk away because it is impractical? What if I want to shun this notion? Not because it will keep me perpetually young but because without a bit of fun in your life, what is it all for? The grind, the tears, the horrors of the pain people inflict on each other can be overbearing at times. Maybe what we all need is a piece of whimsy hanging in our closet as a touchstone to the self-depreciating humor in our worlds.
I think the corset will be a bucket list item. One day before I die, I will lace up with a piece of feminine history. When that day comes, I assure you I will pop back in here to update how the true physics of a female body works.
Can Trust be a Sleep-Aid? (Originally Published 4/14/11)
I hate sleep. That is not quite true, sleep hates me is more accurate. My head does not like to shut off at night. Instead, it replays the day’s decisions, questions motives, and explores emotions.
I sleep with the TV on and let fictional characters do the stressing for me. If wrapped up in their desires and dreams, mine can quiet down. This is not a new problem of mine. I have had this ‘condition’ since childhood.
A remedy for this does not require a prescription. I stumbled on it a few years back. I resisted it at first, and then became a loyal follower.
Trust is my sleep-aid. When I am there in the moment and I ‘fit’, I am sleeping like a baby. My recent fitfulness attributes to unsubscribing my trust recently.
The tricky mechanics of trust is if you partake, you are vulnerable. There is the feeling of nakedness with no place to hide. One betrayal and you are out in the cold with no protection.
Move in solitude to assure responsibility of one’s own detriment. This should promote a good night’s sleep. Unless the prohibitive is questions of what might have been. Sans a little more effort, communication, and of course trust could have guaranteed sweet dreams forever.
This is not groundbreaking news, or new relationship discovering but it is indicative of my own personal growth. I have come to the point I know I must communicate my needs and demand a proactive listener. I cannot be afraid to speak truth because the unknown is more disruptive to my dreams.
Last night I fell asleep without my TV. Slipping into slumber holding onto words from a fellow dreamer, I was safe from fear, doubt, and self-questioning for that transitional step into dreamland. Once such potential was there for the taking, it just needed the proper tending. Could there be again?
Forums such as this could guarantee many more sleepless nights. I could transfer my fears to Ally McBeal or Carrie Bradshaw; they fearlessly crash into personal gunk as brave pioneers, with song or new shoes. On the other hand, I could hang onto that voice for the secure warmth of a mental blanket. Then again, I could just trust myself to love and communicate as simply as I feel. With no regrets, sleep surely would not be as allusive.
The Plus and Minus of Freewill (Originally published 4/13/11)
I am an advocate of freewill. I use it to justify most of my decisions. It fits in the flawed -but- still -working- on-it self image I have.
Delusional I am not, though. If I allow myself this latitude, I must make the same allowances to those in my life. As I am struggling to push against my boundaries, I have to appreciate the same from my inner circle.
This brings me to my children. Three young adults who used to be solely dependent on me for everything, now only call when they have the time. Now they are trying to decipher their own paths. I know this is the way it is supposed to be and yet…
Living and growing up together, yes, I had a lot of growing to do as I mothered my brood; we saw each other’s flaws. Being family, we quickly knew how to exploit and exasperate.
As young adults, I know they sometimes look back, pull a piece of knowledge from their childhood, and apply it. It is almost a guarantee they look at my mistakes and try to avoid the same choices. Is this successful parenting? Sometimes I question the success of the job I tried to accomplish.
I used to tell my children there was not a handbook to be a perfect mom just as there wasn’t one to be a perfect child. It was not exactly a get out of jail free card but I think it somewhat explained when Mom had a stupid attack. Still sometimes, I see them struggle and I want to go rescue them. Yet I cannot and I do not think they would let me.
I think guilt is an outfit a Mom wears better than baggy sweats. We can never make life easy for our children. This does not seem right; it is a natural instinct to protect ones young.
Then we are knocking on the door of free will again. They are exerting their independence and rolling their eyes at ole Mom’s worries. Their youth gives them the arrogance and expectant of success. I on the other hand have the freewill to outlast them - I will be there when needed.
Women and Personal Responsibility (Originally Published 4/12/11)
I was pissed off all last week. Battling PMS, employment status, and my personal shambles of what is left of my love life, the anger kept growing. Then the federal government pushed me over the edge. The bully going after the weak and poor in the nation once again was particularly hurtful.
I spent last Friday in tears. I sent hurtful text messages and warned other people not to even bother talking to me. I was retreating into myself wondering how I let myself be so vulnerable. The non-stop leakage of my tears a sign of the sense of betrayal I felt by the world.
From a practical point, this seems silly. Procreating days are behind me. My daughters knock on wood; seem to have absorbed my rants on unwanted pregnancies. Yet I remember my friends and theirs; scared young women caught in bleak situations because of bad decisions.
It is so easy to judge women when they have the outward baby bump as evidence. No one’s mind moves automatically to the erring father of the child. It stays on the woman. The one who has to afford this upcoming child; the woman who has to adjust her life to care for its ever changing and increasing needs. Our society judges and points the finger at the mother only.
I then started thinking of a woman’s nature. We tend to love more freely and trusting than our men counter parts. It is our genetic makeup to take on the trials of life with tears but the resolve to make it all better. This probably helps earn the title of the weaker sex. Most of us would not change our vulnerabilities; it defines who we are and how we love.
Yet as our own government exploits, I was growing angrier. I sat on the back porch, chain smoked, and ranted to Tammi (My smart, articulate, and fellow believer of women’s rights sister-in-law and the best decision my brother ever made.) how this was our entire fault.
We were born of women who had to work and who were smart in their own right. We grew up believing we could have it all, the career, children, and love of our lives, if we followed the rules. We tried to be good girls, raised our children with love and understanding, and expected the same respect we gave. We came home from our jobs and fixed dinner, helped with homework, did laundry, and only occasionally bitched about carrying more than our share of the load.
Patiently we waited for the world to change with us, give us our equal share, because it was only fair. We did not judge when our girlfriends too stressed to vote or read a newspaper or watch a news show. We dished about fluff TV shows, fashion, our neighbors and families. We laughed when we treated like second-class citizens because we knew the truth; we carried humankind in our wombs. Under the illusion of getting to heaven by good deeds, many of us were startled when the governing body started taking away our rights.
We live in a country that hides behind human rights. Walk up the steps of capitol hill and ask why we are in three different countries and they will give you gobbley gook human rights, the world’s policeman rushing to action. In their briefcase though are the papers that proclaim women will lie about being raped just to get a government funded abortion. Our country has a proposed 2012 defense budget of 671 billion dollars; the GOP is already calling for a fight over the 37 billion dollar decrease.
There always has to be a solution. Here is my proposed call to action for all the beautiful women in my life. These are our rights we placed in men’s hands. It’s time we take them back. Women have always been resourceful; this is a call to action.
First vote, stay informed, find your local politicians who actually like women. There has to be some out there and if not we can find some. Talk to our daughters and make them aware of how many single mothers live below the poverty line. The numbers of unwed mothers are staggering. Volunteer in any organization that supports young girls. Not all women can be good mothers, just as not all men are women haters. We need to reach the girls who need guidance from smart successful women. Role models are needed to show another option.
Any organization that gets a favorable nod in our country’s political machine has powerful lobbyist. We need to be our own lobbyists. Women have long been the keepers of the checkbook with our buying decisions heeded. It is time to tell Tide, Proctor and Gamble, Johnson and Johnson, and even our fashion designers we want our money to help educate our young women. These corporations write out big charity checks all the time. The way our tax system works, these are profitable write-offs for them. Sponsor a young girl trying to make it through college. Let us make the system work for us instead of against us.
I am not asking women to give up their own beliefs on abortion or even family planning. I am asking you to take an active step in educating our most powerful resource. Our young women are the beginning of our future, a generation that will be as strong or weak as their matriarchs will. There will still be tears and frustration over the shortfalls of this world. Yet if evened out with tears of joy over one young girl’s success, is a compromise, I can live with.
PMS, Eve, and a Time Machine (Originally Published 4/6/11)
There always has to be a why in my world. As I am fighting to survive another brutal week of PMS, my brain is finding a foothold in the logic of it all. I understand how my body works, I get the egg is never gonna be fertilized again, but to spend two weeks every month feeling this miserable. Really? Is it all because of an apple?
I lie in a curled up ball and I wonder about Eve and her desire for knowledge. I understand even when I want to condemn her. I think of this woman living in paradise with the perfect man hand-picked for her. Still it was not quite enough. I deal with my body aches and reoccurring headache and try not to be bitter.
Yet I have a kindred compassion for this flawed woman. She must have lay naked on a bed of grass, stared at puffy clouds, smelled the newness of the earth, and dreamed. Adam may have been the first created, stronger physically, and content to live in Paradise without the hindrance of knowing too much, yet his partner could not. Then along came the cunning snake (another reason to hate that creature) that placed temptation before her.
The creator dealt the punishment with a swift and harsh hand. Adam and Eve forced into a foreign world where all they had were each other and a now tenuous relationship with their maker. They had to work diligently just to survive and raise a family in this environment.
Flashing back to my PMS, which has only worsened as I journey towards menopause, I suppose it is all Eve’s fault. Yet without her transgression I would not be a mother of three bonded by being the vehicle for their existence. There also would not be this hunger to explore my world or the courage or to follow my dreams.
If I had a time machine, I would like to go and stroll the Garden of Eden with Eve. I think she could have benefited from having a girlfriend to just dish. I also think I could have helped with the transitional phase ahead of her.
I would tell her she must not take it personal when Adam pushed her slightly towards God as to say, “She did it.” He is after all just a man. To the best of his abilities, he will protect her, provide for her, and give her beautiful children. We would discuss the virtues of clothes as a way to accent and hide the flaws of an aging woman’s body. There would be drills on how to chop off the nasty head of evil snakes with sharp sticks.
The only tinkering of the future attempted would be to offer a suggestion of negotiations. Instead of hiding from her creator, she should just ‘fess up. Admit her sins and accept the punishment as grace. Yet before she exits, she should ask for a compromise. Once the baby factory closed for good, PMS should also cease.
Would the creator be offended? I find it hard to believe that there was not a bit of magic in that handful of dirt and Adam’s rib. Our creator was not cutting out paper dolls but making a human race. A species that could survive using wits and free will. Was there a possibility I could be PMS free right now? Not sure, but if you have a time machine in your basement, call me.
The Communication of Blank Pages (Originally Published 4/5/11)
This is a curse for writers. I am not sure about other writer’s but for me it is not about having ideas it is about calming the storm in my head. Then pulling down a coherent thought and trying to capture it on paper. There of course has to be a criteria - is it substantial, honest but not pointing fingers, and is it almost PG? I tend to fill my head all day with news, pop culture, music, and conversations from near and dear. Then I let random snippets filter and I analyze what I deem to be the real stuff. The pulp I am going to squeeze into words.
If you know me, you know I never shut up. I am talking the storm of life, which amuses and intrigues me. If you really really know me, you know I cannot communicate worth a damn. This could be why I write instead. For when I cannot sleep, it is what I did not say that keeps me up.
Human language started with grunts and hand signals. The grunts were mainly to get your attention and then to keep it. The hand signals were to pantomime actual needs. In this vein my talking is little more than evolved grunts. The equivalent of yes I am still breathing and I want to participate so hear me. Yet is only through my writing can I decipher my wants and needs.
I know people who are envious of me being able to do this. I in turn admire someone who can look me in the eye and say I need this from you. Honesty of this level takes a blank page, half a pack of cigarettes, and a comfortable chair for me.
Is this a birth defect? Learned behavior? Alternatively, just plain chicken shitness? (Hey, I can make up words especially since LOL is now in the Oxford dictionary.)
Of course with this dubious talent comes a responsibility. It is so easy for me to sit down at 3 AM, pick up a poison pen, and scrawl an epic rant. You want proof? Look at my dresser, hell they even have stamps on them. They will remain unsent, because even professional communicators know to keep their demons locked up.
I guess we all have blank pages before we start to communicate. This is why we prep in the bathroom to enhance our presentation. We are setting the tone, deciding on the cadence, and trying to find our comfort zone.
We all have something important to say; it just presents itself in different forums. Me? I guess I will continue to grunt until I find a comfortable chair.
Let Your Inner Princess Roar (Originally Published 4/4/11)
I am obsessed with fairytales. Yes me; the foul-mouthed, did she really say that out loud cynic. The wind-blown and sun damaged face, hair always a mess, do I have to wear a bra me. Yes, secretly I wanna be a princess.
What woman does not? Now I hear the eyes rolling back in your head but let me explain. Those princesses of our childhood were not all fluff. They knew how to work hard, deal with difficult family, befriend wildlife, and always have a song in their heart. In the end, they were rescued by true love.
The only thing false was the translation; the prince was not the rescue vehicle. It is what drives women crazy, the prince obsession. No matter how good the man of your desire is, he cannot save you. He can only hold your hand and wipe your eyes as you journey together. Somehow, we missed the real moral of the story.
Women are resilient as we go through life openly displaying our greatest asset, our vulnerability. We love the parents who can only see our flaws, the bad boys, and the children who scream they hate us. We can smile when we are taken advantage of because we know it is about the bigger prize.
A handsome prince can only enhance the life we have already built. If we live a hollow existence waiting for someone to save us, we will only hear the echoes of footsteps. What makes us vital is loving and accepting whom we are.
Sometimes bogged down in the cinders of life, we just surrender to self-pity. If we are not careful, we become the wicked stepmother or evil queen. Staring at the mirror, asking who we are and where did our beauty go, we grow ugly.
It is not about the ball gown, glass slipper, or the soul-awakening kiss, which brings us out of our life’s slumber. We must keep our heart from growing bitter. We must continue to sing and make precious friends along the way. It is the love we have inside, bigger than all the questions in our head, which saves us.
I Hate Snakes but Love My Country (Originally Published 4/1/11)
I am not even going to pretend, I hate them creepy, slithering nasty things snakes. They scare the hell out of me; they occupy my nightmares. I know they can be beneficial but I really do not care about that ecological balance shit when it comes to this. I will try to recycle and not throw my cigarette butts on the ground; are we good?
Now having made this point with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, I have a confession. I love the Bronx Zoo Cobra. The attraction is so great I have enabled her to tweet my phone. Then I obnoxiously forward these tweets to my family and friends - after I laugh for five minutes. Not since Sex and the City have, I enjoyed the voyeuristic romps around New York City.
I am not alone in my new obsession. Over 150,000 people have been following her on a witty tour of the Big Apple. The Bronx Zoo twitter account only has 4,000 followers.
Why the immediate clamor for this snippet of whimsy? I think you have to consider the alternative. We are inundated with news. It is on our TVs, radios, laptops, phones, and social networks. War, poverty, losing civil rights, political bickering instead of compromise, and any blowhard who can drag their knuckles to grab a sound bite unfortunately does. It makes some of us considering the option of looking for another country for residency.
Then we have the Bronx Zoo Cobra touring a touchstone metropolis, which we all feel an instant kinship with even though we have never even visited. This city is in our blood as much as the American flag or Mickey Mouse. Yesterday I could hear this cobra hissing the Sesame Street song as I and my children still do. I could taste the bitter dark coffee from the Mudtruck and feel the shivers of emotion of seeing Ellis Island. Citizenship to this country gives us so much more than political rhetoric.
We are not a perfect country. I honestly do not think a democratic country can be. There will always be growing pains, hell to the rest of the world we are still just unruly teenagers. There will be shifts in public opinions and a surplus of people who will never be able to see the bigger picture. I can be ashamed of the actions of my fellow citizens but still be a proud American. As a citizen, it is my duty to stay informed and vote accordingly. As a simple human being though, I can just relax for a few and giggle over a lost cobra.
P.S. Hey you sexy Bronx Bomber Cobra: Slither on over to 5th Avenue and coil around a pair of Christian Louboutin … I need a new picture for tomorrow’s profile.
Update: The runaway cobra has come back home, safe and probably needing a nap. I am going to miss her adventures and might even spring her loose if I was not petrified of snakes…
How I Became a Liberal Part 2 (Originally published 3/31/11)
It is funny how when you are young real life issues seem so far from touching you. I mean you read the headlines and sometimes even cry then put down the paper and put on a party dress. I was in love with life, my soon to be husband, my career, and youth. How many problems could there really be out there?
Then I became a reluctant grownup. I married, rented a house, bought a car, and gulp got pregnant. Now I had the mothering skills of an alley cat early on. I was a 80s girl so really all I had to do was go to work and find a good babysitter. Then in June when I was huge pregnant with my first child I watched in horror as the Tietamen Square incident played out. I was bringing a child into this world.
No longer was I isolated from the real world. I had babies to protect. I know you just missed that leap and rightly so, because it did not happen just then. It was a gradual change of convictions.
As I struggled with raising my three children, I began to bring all issues to my own doorstep. Abortion is a sin? What if it is my 12-year-old daughter molested and is now pregnant? Gays deserve the wrath of God? When my son comes and tells me he is gay, does God now hate the boy who sang in the church choir at five? No more free ride for welfare moms? How about my daughter who used to dress up as a princess and is now a mother of two and her husband ran off? Should she be judged and punished for needing a hand from her fellow citizens?
No as of yet, these have not been issues in my family. Nevertheless, they are issues to some mom who loves their children just as much as I love mine. I cry for them and hope I never forget how lucky I have been so far.
This became more pressing to me than my upbringing. It was not learned behavior anymore; it is what I was seeing outside my safe home. It is not about economics or which third world country we can shove around. I know we have to have the money to fund these programs but I also know how much money we waste as a country. The price of throwing away children is never cost productive.
It is about when we are buried in the ground nothing more than worm dirt what did we actually leave behind. A fat bank account our heirs fight over for months and now no longer speak. Alternatively, did we leave intangibles?
A tear for the suffering. A hand for the weak. A compassion for the disadvantage. Yes, I am a liberal and there are so many reasons to be disgruntled with my political party at times. Yet I sleep at night knowing I will not judge or resent someone who is beneath my current social level. For tomorrow that could be my children.
As for my Republican heritage, if I had the opportunity to explain my reasons to my Grandfather, he just might understand. Not agree mind you, but understand. For even though I no longer agree with his politics; I did learn how to love by example.
How I Became a Liberal Part 1 (Originally published 3/30/11)
I was at a parent teacher’s conference and talking to a young teacher about the upcoming election in 2008. This teacher was a joy to talk to; he was excited to be in his profession and believed he could make a difference. My children enjoyed his way of challenging them. He is also a staunch Republican and during our conversation, he asked me how I became a liberal.
Yes how did this happen? I was the poster child for the Republican Party. I turned eighteen at the end of August and in November, I voted for Ronald Reagan in 1984. I was proud and confident of my choice. I believed in trickle-down economics and come on he helped tear down the wall in Berlin. He was a comforting figure for me; he reminded me of my Grandpa … kind and wise. Remember I was eighteen picking boyfriends with a lot less thought than this but for the same outcome, security and comfort.
A fourth generation American citizen on my mother’s side made the immigrant success story still relevant. Sitting in the kitchen with my Grandparents and hearing the stories of their parents struggling to prosper was inspiring. They believed it was a level playing field and voted straight Republican ticket. I remember Jimmy Carter compared to Satan. Scary words for a girl who said her prayers at night and never missed summer bible school.
Old stories, hog markets, and the twang of country western were my foundation. I tried to be a good girl and I believed that was all that was required of me. Do well in school, smile, and good things were sure to happen. I tried so hard to focus on that instead of the happenings around me.
I ran away from my home wrapped up in the flag so there could be no protests. The Marine Corps took me in and reinforced the Republican format yet also introduced me to different people with a diverse background. All ethnic, economic, and (gasp) sexual orientation were represented in my new group of friends.
I saw people struggle following the American Dream; they were not less deserving than say an upper middle class counterpart. They just had less effective tools. We live in a society that expects everyone to jump on the success train and ride to the land of plenty. If you do not have a ticket, you are either lazy, or too damn dumb to work for your fare.
This is where I first felt the stirrings of discontent with my politics. Yet I still went to the booth and checked the Republicans, it is what I knew. I knew I was changing but underneath all those Cyndi Lauper clothes was still an Alex Keaton conservative.
The Path to True Love Via 80’s Songs (Originally published 3/29/11)
I have not been single since the 80’s, and that is daunting. Now I am tip-toeing to the edge, seeing how to proceed, and I have to admit things are going to be different. I will have to rely on more than lace socks in hot pink pumps, miniskirts, and big, big hair to compete in the dating world. Yet, there has to be something said about experience and the way it influences the way we look at things. That being said, my search for true love is going to be pursued via my favorite 80’s songs.
Through my life’s travels, I have been able to hone in on what is important. I am through with the Under Pressure (Queen & David Bowie) lifestyle. Sure, I know life is not a parade but Girl’s Just Wanna Have Fun (Cyndi Lauper)! This will get me through the rough times.
Mr. Wanna-Be Prince Charming, come over here and Hold Me (Fleetwood Mac), whisper in my ear, and tell me we can dance our troubles away. Don’t Stop Believing (Journey) this time it can be something different; we can make up our own rules. We are past living up to society’s expectations so Take Me Home Tonight (Eddie Money) and in the morning, you will still be my Angel (Madonna).
I do not have many expectations this go around. I have come to realize I am the only person who truly makes me happy. I just have a few requirements: you must always Come Dancing (The Kinks), it will keep us young; Gimme All Your Lovin’ (ZZ Top) because I still do not share well; and Magic (The Cars) never dies unless you stop believing in it.
Step right up here, let us say the vows. We can do much better than Almost Paradise (Mike Reno and Ann Wilson). What a Feeling (Irene Cara) when we embrace our individual dreams, combine them, and set sail to a new destination. Come on baby, take a chance, Let’s Go Crazy (Prince and the Revolution) and know we left nothing behind for us to regret.
Women’s Right – A Cautious Advocate (Originally published 3/28/11)
Geraldine Ferraro passed away and it saddens me. No, I never voted for her, I was a Republican then. (That is a completely different topic for another day’s blog!) The fact that I could have that privilege was a major step. This next presidential election will probably have women candidates who will be there because of our first woman vice president nominee.
I love to see women make strides in unchartered territories. On the other hand, I am very critical of those who are brave enough to attempt it. A woman that is determined to break barriers needs to be at top form. She is just not advancing herself she is representing all women.
If you are entering a typical man’s field, you had better be able to do the job description. I know there is a T&A quota in most occupations, but please earn your promotions the old-fashioned way; work for it.
Harsh? Maybe, but I speak from experience here. Employment in traditional men’s jobs is hard but rewarding when you know you deserve to be there. When you are trying to excel and Miss Suzie Q is promoted over you because she is cute, it sucks.
As we say goodbye to a pioneer in women’s advancement and look forward to the 2012 presidential election races, I want to challenge the next generation of women. Be true to yourself and be who you want to be. Work hard and break any ceiling that tries to stifle you. A woman president? I could vote for one. As long as she is there on merits and is not just a figurehead to get my vote. I mean really, just because we have boobs does not mean we are bimbos.
A Shoe a Day … Keeps Me Honest (Originally published 3/27/11)
No one who is my face book friend needs an introduction to my shoe fetish. Every day, usually immediately after the first cup of coffee and cigarette - if it is after 10:00 AM please do not judge, sometimes the muse or Ally McBeal fix strikes at 3:00 AM - I change my profile picture to the day’s pair of shoes. They of course are outrageous shoes; stilettos, furry, plastic, fringed, and accessorized with bling, straps, buckles, POLKA DOTS and sometimes red bottomed - whew I am getting almost orgasmic typing about them. Side note here - since I am in my forties and enjoying the forecasted sexual prime and a bit fearful of what to do when it ends - orgasmic is not a word I just throw around.
Let us flash to reality for a second, no it is not my favorite place, but let us. I am not a leggy blonde who can strut a pair of Jimmy Choo’s down the catwalk. I am an average forty something who does look like a mother of three. Hell when I was eighteen I looked like a candidate to be a mother of three not arm candy. Therefore, I am the equivalent of brown wrapping paper. I have made my peace with that years ago and look on my inadequacies with an ironic smirk.
The truth is I am a stalker of beauty. Like a magpie, I am attracted to the shiny things in life. There is not any better feeling to see, smell, hear, stroke or on the ultimate occasions kiss artistry. Of course, it needs to be noted, I am usually not attracted to mainstream beauty being an outcast myself. I seek out the vulnerable stark exquisiteness. What is under the social graces, clothes, skin, and bone? I am searching for the core.
Thus when I slip on a new pair of outrageousness each morning, I have put on my truth seeking armor. Embracing my whimsy, I then can meet the day’s harsh light and defy convention. Just a plain girl can become beautiful and honest by just inhaling the glamour of the world.
Till Death or Craig’s List Do Us Part (Originally published 3/26/11)
I guess with this title, I need to confess my sins. It started innocently - I was new in town and needed a new car, a job, and wanted to scout out apartments. It probably took three weeks but yup I went there. To the personals, a voyage in the sheer craziness of the human vulnerabilities, will these one day be an anthropological case study?
There are guys; poetic, almost enchanting until the fifty year old asks for no older than twenty five year old to make his dreams come true. Some have a staccato wish list, which you know they do not budge on their idea of the perfect woman. The honest type who will accept all makes and models as long as they are laid. Then you have your married guys.
They are all very committed to their relationship BUT they have no sex lives anymore. Some even proclaim their wives are okay with them branching out so to speak. Others stress discretion so wife must not be a Craig’s List peruser. A handful of married guys just want conversations with a woman. Apparently, they are not getting that at home either. Then I wonder if their wives are sitting on the couch watching Desperate Housewives and wishing their husbands still touched them like that.
Now God knows I am not judging here. It does make me a bit sad. I went into marriage because it was the next inevitable step to take. I was at the right age; and yes, all my friends were doing it. I was naïve thinking I could make anything work. I fought to keep it a viable relationship and was full of bitterness when I finally gave up. It was hard not to spit when I heard the word marriage.
It could be, I am just older and a bit broken that makes me rethink my insight. Or, because I have three beautiful young adults and I hate to see them with their hearts broken. I see bad marriages all around me. When I am ready to swear off all belief in the institution, I focus on the few good one I know of.
Those couples who get mad at each other yet never quit. The marriages that go through the sexless lulls only to celebrate with a teenage like fervor when they rediscover each other. When they hate each other as husband and wives but remember the friend they married long ago. It is an attainable plane of intimacy.
Call me an optimist. I want a forever kind of friend. Not ashamed to cry, laugh, or grow old with because there was never a perfection curve. Just an extended slumber party, in the dark where you whisper your dreams and fears to the person who would never use them against you, yes I believe marriage can be that simple. A relationship that is honest and tended to daily so all needs are met without a need for an ad on Craig’s List.
Compromise or Sellout (Originally published 3/24/11)
Human nature is a tricky beast. We have our own agendas; this is not all bad. Yet sometimes it collides with our natural urge for companionship. How does one share lives without losing individuality? Is it just I that struggles with this? I like my private journey I am on, but I do like a good conversation, a random smile, and the idea of a walking partner on the road.
It is probably my attitude that gets in the way. I do not half ass things. Once I have a notion in my head, I cannot separate fact from fiction. If something or someone is worth doing it should be a commitment until there is a final product.
The problem lies within the process. How do you compromise with another individual without losing yourself? I know how to adapt to fit in a particular situation or life which is a pro and con. I swear, at times I am just a lump of play-doh. In my ability to be compassionate and empathetic, I tend to put all needs in front of my own. This familiar trend turns to a service and before long, I am resentful. This is not who I wanted to be.
I could defer the blame to others; I just always pick wrong. Yet there have been incredible people in my life. Headstrong yes, but I am in admiration of that trait. The sole responsibility must be mine then. If I admire strength and plain ass stubbornness, how is it I cannot nurture my own? When do I get to be strong enough to validate my own self-worth? Yes, I think it is my hang up not other’s flaws.
Thus, today I will speak up for myself. I will know I am not always right, but always open to learning the correct answers. I will not be afraid to fail, because I am still strong and viable. I will not discontinue my love for people for who they are. I will accept their warts, bumps and all just as I always have. The only change will be this time I will allow myself the same consideration.
For as noted above, I love strong and beautiful people. It is just sometimes I forget I am one of them.
The Resentment of Goodbyes (Originally published 3/20/11)
Losing one’s youth can be a grim reality even for an optimist. I repeat the mantras with convictions but sometimes still disbelieve. If I was committed, I could fight the aging infrastructure with diet and exercise. If I maintain perspective, I can balance experience and emotions to achieve mental stability. I could reach the summit; I could lose my resentment of goodbyes.
Flashback to youth. It is the smell of the earth; our original source that keeps us grounded. It is the warmth of the sun, which inspires us to grow just to be closer to the light. Wind whispered encouragement in our ear; it was all in the life cycle’s scheme for us to flourish. We know no other way to live.
The promise of heaven to me was not pearly gates or streets of gold. It has always been about my departed loved ones still being in my living awareness to share my journey. I hate solitude, which echoes of accusations of inadequacies. If I do not have to say goodbye my loved ones will always be celestial touchstones.
Of course, other departures do not consist of death but are just as final. Farewell to friends and lovers whether due to geological moves or emotional necessities can be a devastating loss. Goodbyes have always meant failure to me.
I did not try hard enough quitting with that last push which could have meant nirvana. A sign of weakness when all I had to do was not judgjudge and practice Zen. Goodbyes highlight my deficiencies.
Flash-forward to enlightenment induced by maturity. Friends and lovers come into our lives because where we are in the road. If we practice status quo we would die from exposure, hunger, and hell maybe even boredom. We have to continue to travel.
Disagreements on routes taken, speed of pace, and other companions will happen. Sometimes harmony can prevail. Other times it is best to part ways.
With no resentment, I will say thank-you. The laughs and love shared forever etched in my memories. The tears of goodbye to you are of gratitude and well wishes. I will soon be able to remember the joy of the furtherance of my life instead of the pain of your departure.
Do You Ever Wonder? (Originally published 3/18/11)
I am not a churchgoer. Used to be when I was young; I loved it for years. Then fire and brimstone collided with my teenage years. I determined if I was going to hell, might as well enjoy the ride.
Now as a grownup, yes I use this term loosely, I cringe when I see religion as a bully stick. It leaves a distaste in my mouth not unlike a 80s hangover. I avoid organized religion still.
I do have devout Christians in my flock of friends. They are not flamethrowers, scorching me with their divine truth. More like lead by example, they embrace their faith by living scripture as their testimony. I have great admiration for them.
Fast forward to me writing three thousand words yesterday on faith, trying to keep a straight face. I felt a bit hypocritical as I waded into my paid assignment. “I come to your hallowed halls God, not for salvation but to scrape a living doing what I want to be.”
Research engines brought the words of God to me sans man’s interpretation. It was a familiar walk among the words of the ultimate manifest destiny. I forgot how God’s plan was one of love not judgment.
Do not panic my fellow sinners. I am not joining a convent; a commune is still a better fit for me. I will say I would not be opposed to find a place of worship that does not tell me selected people of my human brotherhood are destined to go to hell for who they ‘choose’ to be. In his image created, how can man judge this?
I imagine God is up there right now trying to hide a smirk. Here I thought I was breaking rules, rebelling against the establishment. I am sure as my Shepherd he has been watching me kick up my heels and running circles around his flock, wearing myself ragged. I know if I try to sneak back into the rank and file there will be no, ‘I told you so’. I might just catch a sly wink, nothing more, nothing less. Do you ever wonder where our free will came from?
Too Old For Cosmo? (Originally published 3/17/11)
In the days of magazines, news, blogs, and personal interests available over the web the display of magazines by the checkout usually are just blurbs to make waiting easier. Yet there is one magazine, which can still make me take out my six bucks. Cosmopolitan makes it home most days where I devour it cover to cover.
I like the slick ads and beautiful girls and sometimes their almost lucid thoughts. I thought just us plain girls had brains. I like the articles on sex and by what seems important these days. I read my love horoscope not as an actual guide but as a good fiction read. It is not all fluff though.
One of the best essays I ever read was one published in Cosmo. I was in nineteen trying very hard to be a grownup. The essay was cautious tales of listening to the baby inside of us, letting her cry, taking care of her as we hardened our outsides. This was very good advice and had nothing to do with orgasms. Just for general info though ladies, love and take care of your baby inside and orgasms are so much easier to achieve.
However, I admit to loving my Cosmo guilty pleasure I was disturbed when the latest Cosmo bachelor issue came out. First, there were no men my age to ogle over. I know I am a little out of the demographic age of their readership, but throw this aging faithful reader a bone. I read the brief bios anyway in the privacy of my own home so there were no accusations of being a pedophile in public. I walked away with an hmmmm moment.
Manscaping? I am a connoisseur of men on a small scale. I like the differences, their size, their muscles, and their hair. Now at my age there are many of my age appropriate men who have lost their hair (On their heads). I do not begrudge them as they (I hope) do not begrudge me of the sagging boobs and deepening wrinkles. However, a man with no hair on his body? I do not know about you but the last time I was dating boys without hair a quick peck out on the schoolyard was a big deal. The thought of Sam Elliott manscaping makes me cringe; I like my men the old-fashioned way, hair and all.
So yeah, anyways. Cosmo if you are listening, do not forget your loyal reader. I do not exactly want you to change your magazine; I enjoy the slick pretty pictures of the young things. Just remember us old people, we like sex too. Moreover, we all get old.
Doomsday Town Criers (Originally published 3/16/11)
I always enjoyed the idea of the Town Criers of the 17th century. The visual of a smart dressed man ringing his bell and giving me the pertinent news makes me quite envious. Modern times have done away with the town crier of course but now we have several different mediums to receive the headlines. Sometimes progress is not a good thing.
Now it is not as if I really object to bad news, I understand life is not always a parade, bad things happen. What my objections are with the spin. With the responsibilities of broadcasting must come accountability.
There cannot just be a natural disaster; people have to project their own agenda on it to explain the whys. From The Fox ‘fear’ News, to elected officials, and even our circle of friends project their own fears onto current events. It seems today if a stop sign blown down by a thunderstorm has a direct correlation to the holocaust.
Really? One of our most horrific moments in history has become cheapened by this fear tactic. We have almost become numb to the word because of its over use. Now just maybe this is the problem.
The town crier had to actually walk the town and project the news with his voice to drown out the livestock, crying babies, and the busy industrious life happenings. Today’s life noise is different with our busy schedules, our electronic gadgets, and even our social pages are drowning out the news. This could be why the news, proposed keepers of my soul, and even my unwitting friends use shock tactics to get me to look up from my self-absorbed life.
Now I must voice my own breaking news. I know I am preoccupied, sometimes flaky, and at times unreachable. Yet I have not lost my human capabilities to be touched. I mourn over the people who have lost their families and lives by a natural disaster. I shed tears over a child coming home dressed in a flag. I know I am a sinner who needs to strive to be a better representative of what my maker knew I could be.
However, I do not believe it is my or anyone else sin that has caused this. This is how life happens, always has been and always will be. There are tragedies, loss, but also joys in this journey. I will cry with the world and remember to treat my fellow man with kindness and compassion. For this is the real moral of the story: We do not know when our number is up or how it will happen. It is kindness and love; not fear that makes us productive people and the journey enjoyable. Save your scare tactics for Halloween and keep it simple. Ask the town crier, make it brief and clear, the towns people are smart enough to process the information on their own.
Letting Go (Originally published 3/11/11)
The one job no ever wants to finish is parenting. Now I will admit somewhere in the depths of changing diapers and mixing formula, trapped in a warp of inevitability, I would never escape. This phase did end though and it now seems it was only a blip on my personal timeline.
The challenge of these days is watching my children struggle, as they become productive members of society. No longer can I charge in and wipe a snotty nose and bond over a Disney movie. I can only commiserate as they stretch their legs into adulthood.
I must try to give them the knowledge that struggle shapes them even as try not to resent my own daily struggles. Even if I protest against a world, which sometimes bullies my children, I know with their perverse humor and stubbornness they will succeed. Yet when I hear the tears in their voice, I want to shield them all pain.
I know though if I closet them away, keep them from harm. I keep them from growth and sunshine. Storms they must weather and I can only offer flimsy words of encouragement instead of shelter. They do not melt though from being soaked and at times, their tenacity surprises me.
I let them go into a world I know is full of hurt and disappointment. I have the mom smile pasted on my face as I wave the forever goodbye. No more snacking on cheerios, play dough stuck in the carpet, or loads of laundry. Instead, I wait for the brief moments of reconnection when we are the unbeatable team of mother and child.
Peter Pan Philosophy (Originally published 3/10/11)
If I could choose a game plan and actually commit, it would be never to grow up. This wish is not just about dodging the grey hair, new wrinkles, or the lumpy body I have acquired over the years. It is about the ability to never ask what if and just charge through life with the silly smile of discovery. It is about letting go and being happy about it.
The acceptance of Life’s rugged roadmap and knowing the treacherous ascent will provide one hell of a view. Yet because there is a childlike adventurous spirit involved, I cannot stake my territorial claim on it. Eventually I must accept the downhill descent as just another leg in my journey.
This is when I hear my inner childhood brat protesting. It’s mine! All mine! I don’t wanna share! I’m tired and whiney and don’t want to move on. With all my guileless wonderment of life’s bright shiny objects, I must confront the inner tantrums.
The reality is no matter the avoidance; I will grow or become stagnant. Mold is not my personal favorite perfume. I must acknowledge progress as I try to keep each foot precariously balanced in the real and fantasy world.
I may cruise Never Never Land, flying through my hopes and dreams aided by pixie dust. In wonderment, I will be thankful of this voyage, my own personal fairytale. Yet occasionally, when I am on the ground throwing a fit, I probably just need a swift kick in the ass from Tinker Bell.
Scab Picker (Originally published 3/9/11)
We are all a remarkable piece of human engineering. Our bodies, minds, and even hearts are programmed to self-heal. The only glitch in the system is our own free will.
I know my body produces the scab to heal my hurts; it is a cathartic Band-Aid. If I let it be. However if I am not ready to let go of the ache and choose to peel off the healing device, the pain is still as fresh as when first inflicted.
Then why? It would be so much easier and constructive to let it be. It will eventually fade and just be a grey spot on the sunshine of life. It is what it is. Yet with the pain comes the feeling of what it once was. I am somehow comforted with the pre-injurious yesterdays.
I am not fatalist. I do believe there will be more tomorrows, even a possibility of happier conclusions. It is just today I want to peek under the bandage for another look of what was once so right.
Semper Fi (Originally published 3/8/11)
As you go through life, the higher powers like to throw out slogans to motivate. Depending on the current station of your life, these can be an asset or just some propaganda you want to swat away from your face. The Latin term was just another thing the drill instructors were throwing at me when I was eighteen and trying to figure out what the hell I had willingly signed up for.
For almost eight years, I continued to learn my role in the exclusive branch of the US Marines. Through it all, I was challenged beyond what I thought I was capable of, but refused to quit trying. It was all due to this pride that was beat into my head and my fellow jarheads.
Now I am back at a beach in North Carolina with a handful of these incredible people. It is as if the last twenty-five years disappeared; we may be greyer, a bit more nourished, and a just a few years from our prime, but we still know each other like no others. We shared an experience that has changed us forever.
As we moved on back into the civilian world to become moms and dads, employees and bosses, and jaded citizens of the world, sometimes the memories faded. Yet what we were molded into is still with us and when we embraced this, we knew we would always be the best.
We walked through Camp Lejeune and New River yesterday and it was if it were just yesterday when we were a part of this world. I think most of wanted to put back on the uniform. Once a Marine always a Marine.
Always Faithful? This was not just a slogan they taught us in boot camp; this is who we became. Thanks to the Corps and each other, we would not know how to be anything else.
Omission is Betrayal (Originally published in 3/4/11)
I learned that from The Little Black Book. To be honest, I probably always knew this but it was just a random cluster of thoughts floating and when I heard these words, it became concrete. Truth is not an easy mistress.
I was talking to my friend about her relationship the other night and even though we were poking fun of ourselves; the hurt was there. It should not be this hard; for we are not in junior high anymore, we are grownups. This should make it easier to tell the truth.
Here are the truths for myself and whoever else wants to play in my sandbox:
You do not have to say I Love You. Throwing this verbiage around is not going to make me trust you faster, only time can do that. It is not going to guarantee you getting laid. I am grownup up enough to know sex does not equal love or visa versa.
Do not say it, hell do not say anything unless you mean it. You trying to analyze me and determine what makes me happy is just wrong. I tend to believe what people say. It is my nature and I do not want this to change.
Truth is not just in our words, it is in our actions, it is in our breathing. If a breath has to be held in to keep from blurting out a thought that is pounding on the frontal lobe, you are lying.
If it takes more than you to validate your worth this will not work for me. If I am not enough of an enhancement and you need others. If I am enough for right now but iffy for the future. It is an untruth.
I guess the zenith I am looking for is when someone can say I love you PERIOD. No buts, what ifs, or for nows. I am looking for that truth.
Tom Hanks Said It (Originally published in 3/3/11)
There is no crying in baseball. My upbringing expanded on this truth. There is no crying in life. It is a sign of weakness, defeat, and just morally wrong.
I am well-conditioned to rule following, for everyone likes the nice girl. Yet I also am adept at tight roping that grey line between right and wrong. This is what keeps me sane most days.
At four, this morning my bad kitty woke me up and I felt the tears building. I have been blink blink blinking them away since. It seems you cannot start over without leaving things behind. Not all my busywork and new plans are letting me forget that today.
Thus, I grabbed my umbrella for balance and climbed the ladder. You know I am desperate when I willingly leave the ground. Stepping out on that line, I saw a vision of salvation. I have just DVR’d the movie “The Way We Were”.
Tonight in the dark, with a towel, for a box of Kleenex just is not going to be enough; I will mourn. Sometimes love is not enough and I will acknowledge that with my tears. I cry for them, that beautiful naïve couple who painfully finds this out. This is within the boundaries; it is not weakness but compassion for others.
Tomorrow with good-luck, the well will be dry. I can resume by looking forward. The outcome will turn out to be the best. Be it karma or just on good faith if you adhere to the rules you must always succeed. Right?
An End of an Era (Originally published 3/2/11)
I am divorced. It took almost three years so most of the anger, resentment, and just the sheer exhaustion of the entire trauma has mostly run its course. Yet reflections of the past have been popping up and of course there are regrets.
The biggest regret is that I wasted so much time before I allowed myself to admit there was a mistake made. I hate to admit I am wrong so I tend to try to adjust the outcome to be favorable. Now I understand people are who they are no matter how you dress them up. This includes me.
I have never before appreciated how one’s actions or more accurately in my case; inaction, could affect so many people. Hurting my children will always be the worst side effect. No matter how you justify it, they were the casualty in this war of wills. Now all I can offer them is the example of remaining true to you. It might be the most important life lesson one can learn.
It’s time to pack up the past two decades with all the would haves, could haves, and should haves and lock them away. I must pledge to myself I will listen to my inner voice. It may not always be wise but it is my truth. I also need to acknowledge there is no one but myself to blame. This has always been true, but now I am alone, this fact reverberates through the echoes of the emptiness.
This new journey I am on so begins. I vow to myself not to take the easy path because I am a true chicken at heart. I will make this a worthy decision and learn whom I am and exactly what I need to be happy. I will laugh often with others and at myself. I will never again pledge myself to someone who I cannot give my all. For if you are dishonest with yourself; you will always be alone.
I Have a Wildflower Garden of Friends & Family (Originally published 2/22/11)
They are of all shape and sizes, a representative of the American melting pot and I love them. Sometimes though I scratch my head and wonder what the hell are you thinking? For if, they are in my quasi-diverse end zone why aren’t we all celebrating each other.
My dismay comes mostly from my social networking. I open a text, face book entry, or twitter and my heart falls as if I were a mother in church and my toddler just yelled “shit” instead of “amen”. I take it personal and it hurts.
I tend to cultivate people who have deep convictions because I admire the strength it takes to be true. Therefore in my garden are conservatives and liberals, Christians and pagans, gays and straights, and a various spatter of ethnicities. They do not offend me unless their beliefs go past their arm lengths.
For that is how I define our civil liberties - we are unique personalities living in a country which allows that as long as we do not oppress. Your ideology should not punch mine. If you want to convince me your lifestyle is the “chosen” one, be an effective flower. Bloom and reach for the sun using your convictions as fertilizer.
However, if you intend to sprout runners and choke out one of my other flowering friends, be prepared. I will snip you. You are just one flower in my garden and at the end of the day, I want gaze upon my variegated bouquet.
What Do I Want To Be… (Originally published 2/19/11)
When I grow up? Um, I am forty-four; shouldn’t I be past this self-scrutiny? I am sure this rush of almost apologetic thinking to the winding forked path I have called my life comes from me having been filling out resumes all this week. A lot of them.
Due to my age and my instinctive need to please, I KNOW what various potential employers WANT me to say. Yet this is supposed to be my “Life-Changing” phase so I try to resist my better judgment. It is my equivalent to me sizing up a romantic interest - do you really want me for me? Or the fucked up signals I sometimes cannot help but send?
I KNOW HOW TO BE ANYTHING YOU WANT; at least until I can no longer look in the mirror with an ounce of self-respect.
It’s the honing chip implanted deep internally, too deep to dig out like a sick western movie scene, it is not a well-aimed arrow - it is part of my hardware. I swear my mother had something to do with this - I once had so much potential … My only hope is my newfound urge to embrace myself. This self-preserving act might build layers so deep the chip’s reception is muted.
And the job search? I am filling out so many and such a variety. It is not the minute; it is the atmosphere I crave. I’m never going to be the conventional success story with the 401K, status-projecting vehicle, or house in the ‘burbs. I am basing my desired results in my new definition of accomplishment.
What do I want to be when I grow up? The one thing I should have always wanted. I want to be me.
No More Hiding (Originally published 2/18/11)
I have always envied the strong ones who were able to run off and Join the Circus or Go West! It took such courage to leave all the security behind and just walk away. It wasn't as if I haven't always tried, I was a child who ran away quite frequently but in all actuality I didn't run; I hid and watched them look for me. Maybe it was just that I wanted to be reassured I was important enough to look for. Really I think it was because even at a young age I could visualize what might happen if I actually did leave. The fear of the possibilities made me an obedient servant of the status quo.
This time though I refuse to hide. I have uprooted myself, left behind pieces of my heart with those I love, and decided it's now or never. I want to be a participant of life. I want to touch the beauty, smell the aromas, feel the texture, and sing with the melody of this crazy entertaining world without any apologies. I know it’s not going to be easy to reprogram myself; I have always been so eager to please. In the process I hurt myself to the point I was no longer viable to those who had counted on me.
The journey begins today.
I have left my home state Nebraska once again, I did this once before when I was eighteen certain I was going to conquer the world, and I am in a new city, Indianapolis. Not really a random choice because my baby brother, Donald and his awesome wife, Tammi offered me free room and board until I get on my feet. Simplifying so all my belongings fit in a garden shed. I did find room for my former barn cat Komoneeshi, he hasn't complained so much about the major move as the surgery to remove his manhood. Starting with great enthusiasm I have filled out way too many job applications and discovered the incredible shopping in a city. Now a week into it, I am trying not to be worried when the phone hasn't been ringing requesting me to interview.
Yet I know its ok, because even if I actually went east instead of west and I have an insane fear of clowns; I'm not actually running away anymore. I am just no longer hiding. That is enough progress for today.
Resolutions or Revelations (Originally published 1/29/12)
It is nearing the end of January and I find myself panicking because I have not made any resolutions. Then I waiver and think is this a big deal either way? A backward glance of the last year makes me realize I have the focus of an OCD twelve-year-old made worse by a surplus of caffeine and nicotine. The problem with Resolutions is it is acknowledging the deficiencies in your life or character.
I need a plan and/or some guidelines or I am going to end up like one of the characters of a great book I read this year “On the Road”; drift less, penniless, and self-isolated. Of course, the inner secret here is I am envious of that kind of randomness of just enjoying the ride. Reality always has a way of breaking through the clouds of daydreams though.
The last year has been quite a journey of self-discovery and battling past demons. I started the New Year in the bliss of love with one of the best friends I have ever had. At the same time, the silent echoes of my missing children devastated me as they struck out on their own. This happens to all women I know but I am one that mother who lived and identified myself through them. Donald and Tammi offered me a geographical change and I did a reality check on the destination I was counting on. Future regrets were what finally made me pack the U-Haul.
I spent the summer with the artistic youth of Indy’s music talent as an Intern for IndyConcerts.com. I met wonderful people, struggled with deadlines, learned the city a bit (I still get lost way too much), and found hidden places to patronize. In the process, I had to say goodbye to past connections, which is always hard for me. As much as I push myself towards change, there are certain people or things that are touchstones because I always thought they would be there. This is the selfish part of me, I grasp the knowledge of my need to continue forward but I am surprised when others want to walk away from my life for their own agenda.
Finally employed, I move into my own place next week. This brings more challenges and the need of a plan. Guidelines or let us call them resolutions today.
I can grab a pen and paper and scribble the usual; Quit Smoking, Budget, Lose Weight. This year though when my list was in front of me, I think it actually mocked me. These are not real goals, these symptoms of my deficiencies. The only way to grow is to move forward, so I will be brutally honest here. I have been treading water dreaming about the changes I wanted, but terrified to fail. The revelation of my faux journey was on New Year’s Eve when I admitted how tired I was. Physically and mentally because my legs have been moving for years but I am still on the damn doorstep.
I will guarantee you I will screw many things up this New Year. I will spend long nights with Law and Order playing the endless background loop and pick at regrets. I will throw full out pity parties complete with confetti just because I sometimes like it messy. My resolution this year is I will get of the damn doorstep; next year this time, I hope to be able to report some progress. I am shooting for the world this year; but I will be happy to make it to the front gate.
The Ten Commandments of Shopping and/or Relationships (Originally published 7/14/11)
I am beginning to master the savvy shopping techniques so maybe I can learn to apply them in real life. Many a times I have gravitated towards that shiny or eye popping article of clothing or shoes (of course) and tried to make it fit. I even force myself to wear such items a couple of times before I admit a bad fit. Either it was not flattering or it just caused too much pain.
That last sentence is kicking my ass today. If I am getting choosier with under a dollar articles of clothing goodwill specials, why can I not be as kind to my heart as my closet? These clothes and shoes promise to accentuate my random personality and make me smile when I reach for them. Yet when I put them on, I only get pinched toes, heels rubbed raw, or my flaws accentuated.
Soooo, come on if you are a consistent reader of mine you can make the leap here with me. If I demand this much from my wardrobe, why it is I do not have enough self-respect to demand it from a fellow human being? Especially if that person professes to love and care for me?
I have been knocked around this relationship game long enough to get the jest of the pattern. My outrageousness attracts men who are pretty damn conservative. Is this the yin and yang of life working at its best? I used to think so, for while I poked fun at their rigid patterns I also enjoyed the stability I do not possess. This is the woman in me I am certain, to be able to admire what is foreign to my life and not be offended or take it personal. The same cannot be said for the opposite sex.
Even while they embrace me and go on my crazy jaunts of frivolousness, they keep withdrawn so I do not taint their order. It is as if they enjoy the day trips but sure in hell are not going to invest in the full-blown vacation. I am too much of a liability especially as they are looking forward to their relaxing golden years.
I used to think if I tried enough on, I would find someone brave enough to take a permanent journey. Now though, I am reassessing what it is going to take to make me happy. I want rules, not ten commandment fear for your soul rules instead more of an order of protection to my heart.
The Ten Commandments of Shopping and/or Relationships
1. You shall not love your order more than me.
2. Your to do list is your shrine not mine. If you want to worship it, do it on your own time not when with me.
3. You shall not point out my flaws on a consistent basis. I do not let you see my roll my eyes every time you recheck your list.
4. Remember when it is our day all we are required to do is enjoy. There does not have to be a ten-page synopsis on where it will all lead. At our age, future years may be asking too much.
5. Honor our differences. There must be a reason for the chemistry. Do not think your intelligence is higher than the creator who made us tick. If it works, do not try to fix it.
6. Do not try to kill what scares you. The attraction was the whole of the person, not just the parts you like.
7. Ahhh, the scarlet A commandment. This is not that hard, if you do not want monogamy do not profess something you do not feel. As maturing adults, other arrangements can be made. We are the keepers of the rulebook these days; you do not have to lie to get laid.
8. It is all about honesty. Not just to your partner but yourself. If it is uncomfortable to you, do a favor to all that is involved, and keep moving.
9. If there is a problem, tell the one you with whom chose to share a life. Not your support system of used to be’s and potential wanna be’s.
10. When you want to fuck the next one on your list, have the courtesy to close the door behind you. I will use my Louby’s as an example; you think they wanted to be attached to a long legged skinny ass blonde when they were sitting in the showroom, instead of in my bedroom? The blonde passed them up and so now, they are my prized possession. Maybe I do not have the legs but I do make sure they are appreciated for how special they are.
I know I will continue to be attracted towards men who do not match me just as I am to those peep toe shoes that pinch my feet into a perpetual Charlie horse. I am counting on shopping experience to kick in from now on. After trying you on, I plan on being able to look in the mirror, reluctantly putting you back on the shelf, and walking away. “Sorry dude, you make my ass look big”
No Swimming Necessary (Originally Published 7/3/11)
I am having a delicious moment. I have never been able to swim, in fact water in my face panics me in a life threatening way. Yet I love the water. I like a lake or river and after adjusting to the icy temperature, I float with my eyes closed. The muffled sound of the water and the drift is liberating. It is akin to going to the altar of mother earth, saying take me, cleanse me and offer salvation.
This is where I am today…
I should not be. I am still unemployed. Tired of being dependent and am getting to the point of realizing I will finish this life on my own. This knowledge is hard for the little girl inside who never quit believing in fairytales. Other days this stress makes me anxious, bitchy, and sometimes even weepy. Second-guessing myself, I try to think what areas of my life I would compromise to avoid this inevitable outcome.
Though for this moment, and isn’t that what life really is, just little snapshots piled up to make the final album, I am just drifting with my eyes closed. My world when I allow it to encompass me is such a beautiful place. Thankful for my ignorance, I am grateful of my inconsistent will to shape it to perfection. The rough edges give it color.
The love of my lives, my children, who proved even flawed people, can make a perfect vessel. Somehow, they picked the good their parents gave them out of all the mistakes made and have the substance to make their own choices. Instead of fear, they inspire me as they struggle to be true to themselves.
All those courageous people I love in my life what a buffer they have been, cheering me on even when they do not agree with my lifestyle. The eclectic mix of friends and lovers fill the empty holes in my soul. Even those who I am no longer in contact can make me smile when I think of how they enhanced my life.
Then there are the creations of total strangers. The music, movies, and books I have ingested into my brain. Random pieces of other’s dreams have hodgepodged to become my philosophy, making me included instead of an interloper.
Today I am drifting. My eyes closed, my breathing measured, and I offer my self-control as a sacrifice. Light is playing on top my eyelids to illuminate my way. I have become insignificant just another piece of flotsam on top of the water. Yet as slight as I acknowledge my presence to be, the world has put before me such treasures for my pleasure.
No there is no castle, kingdom, or white knight in my future. Nor will I die a penniless waif from a Dickens novel. My riches are in people, experiences, and the ability to fall in love with nature’s dance. This makes me marvel how fortunate I am. We all are going to close our eyes as we draw our last breath. I think of the flashback that projects on the insides of my eyelids. Yes I will die a very rich woman because I have never learned to swim.
Life’s Excess (Originally Published 6/27/11)
Hello Again! This place is dusty, I know, but I am going to try to be more active here in the future. My problem is I am obsessive when I start any new project. For those that do not know, I received the opportunity to be an intern for IndyConcerts. Now I go to three to five concerts a week, interview bands and review shows. It is a win win; I am meeting wonderful creative people and hearing some excellent new music. I love this, but it highlights’ my time-management deficiencies. This is a self-improvement goal that still needs work. Now on to what has really been festering in my soul lately.
This all started a couple of years back when I was intrigued by an underground movement of living efficiently in small spaces. Slowly it turned from a passing curiosity to a plausible goal. When I looked up Tiny Tumbleweed Houses, saw my 114 square feet dream house; two-story, and perfect front porch, I fell in love.
Whenever I get an idea lodged sideways in my mind, I will tell one and all. Loved ones to potential serial killers walking by are going to hear my newest grand plan. Met with resistance to these ideas, I often get defensive. If it is logical to me, what the hell is your problem?
I guess the most general opposition is what you do with your things. At my age, there is usually a lifetime of accumulation. Thankfully, I can say with time as a buffer, I lost 23 years of my life excesses in the divorce. After that, it is easy for me to build that Goodwill pile.
Yet 114 square feet? Sometimes before I sleep, I tick off what would have to go. The hardest would be my DVD’s, books, and CD’s. Yet these days most media can be electronically stored. I am also decorating in my head, experimenting with ways to use my shoes and costume jewelry to accessorize my house so they are a multi-tasking necessity.
Once I mentally packed my belongings in my dream house, still being met with opposition, I realized my house on wheels is more than discarding items. This is a lifestyle choice. What else would I have to glean from my life? Are people, past dreams, and desires potential items eligible for recycling?
Take one more step with me please. If I am willing to give up a major chunk of my life, is my old-fashioned ideology next? Does more than my outward environment need downsized? Internally do I need to empty up some rooms?
It is not just the dollhouse I crave. It is the act of being self-supporting and able to pull up on a whim and explore the wondrous world I live in. I want to be an active participant as I observe. The self-absorption and worrying about other people’s actions as if I have some control over them, take up too much room in my life.
If the crazy plan of mine ever comes to fructuation, I want to greet it with a clear head and no apologies. What was sorted off to the goodwill pile is still loved and cherished. Yet as I prepare for what could be my last great adventure some things are not going to fit. I refuse to see this as a loss.
Everything I have held in my hands, admired for its beauty, and shared my space with; has been a much-needed addition in my life. I like to think it is equivalent to viewing the beauty of a national landmark. The view steals your breath and never leaves your memories. This does not mean you have to tuck it in your pocket and take it home.
Acne, Wrinkles, and Gratitude (Originally Published 5/17/11)
It has been a bit of a writing hiatus. Not that I have not had ideas or have not been writing. I started my internship this week so I have been doing band bios, articles, and interviews. Last week, well last week I was wading through murky mental grounds.
Along came my Yoda like friend Rog with a suggestion to write about gratitude. You know how sometimes good advice, motivating quotes, or Pollyannaism just pisses you off sometimes? Well I was almost there, but I kind of like Yoda and realize if something sits on top long enough, it just might soak in. Like a good body balm.
So now, I have Gratitude to ponder. On a world scale, yeah I am kicking ass. I am relatively healthy, housed, and feed. My shoe collection can shine up pretty damn good still. The offspring are all rocking in their own worlds. Yup life aint bad.
Gratitude. A short story of mine published a couple weeks back. I have my internship, which is a blast by the way, and I have fought off the panic so far. I am writing most days so I am stepping forward.
Gratitude. I have a zit the size of a nuclear fallout zone on my eyebrow; it complements the wrinkles under my eyes well. The gray is coming in more these days. If I had a real paying job, I would offer cash for the sandman to quit fucking around and visit me more often. Relationship problems? I would say it is really a problem of means and geography at this point.
I AM thankful when it all comes down to it. The Creator, Mother Earth, my Maker, or the big Yoda in the sky who made me from a handful of dirt made sure there was some grit in there. I am sure I feel it in the membranes in my head as my thinking mechanics are grinding they have this abrasiveness to keep if nothing else the smirk on my face.
I have never been much of a first placer. I do not have that kind of focus. Usually though, I can wear down them fuckers down.
Yup I am grateful!
My Personal Bluebeard’s Closet (Originally Published 5/9/11)
It is hard not to gain self-knowledge when this is the vessel I reside. It is like living in a house for forty-four years. After all those years, you know every floor that slopes, which window is drafty, and the faucet that drips loudly at three in the morning. Yet in every human domicile, there is probably a Bluebeard’s closet.
Throughout my life, I have found it easy to blame my current Bluebeard for keeping the keys away from me. It is a repeated pattern of me charming a critical demanding fall guy to be the keeper of my nightmares. Yet in the wee early mornings, I would sneak the key back to enter my room of demons.
Hanging on the walls, are not curious wives but unfulfilled dreams in their gore of non-fructuation. I can take a stick to prod each stiffened preserved corpse and give you the name of the person whom I hold responsible for its demise. Leaving before dawn with cold bare feet and stinking of death, I sometimes feel revived. The mentality of independence is a siren call of what I could do if I kept the keys myself.
The starting over process is easy as is the discarding of old habits; loves. No one needs to know of the doomed closet, a wide smile glosses anything. Even I am almost in ignorance of the bad memory of stalemate as I take a fresh path - back to where I started.
For it stands to reason, this is my dwelling; my world - I am the keeper of the keys. Over the years, I have just made a copy then pressed it into the unsuspecting palm and whispered save me. The carnage has been by my own hands, I have strangled the life out of possibilities.
Of late, I visited the cold mausoleum of past dreams with weariness. It is not wisdom but exhaustion, which demands the realization; the last hook on the wall in this room is for the proprietor. The more locks I put on the door, brokenness forever preserved.
It is more than throwing away the padlock, the hinges need taken off the door. Light and moving air can decompose the corpses until swept up as just another dusty room. If the corpses are free, the haunting will cease. Salvation no longer needed.
Missing Lipstick and Other Character Flaws (Originally Published 5/3/11)
Really? This is what I was asking myself when I was trying to prepare for an important appointment and I could not find my lipstick. Now I am not like most women with their collection of makeup. I after buying a couple of near misses and this is what I use until it is gone or yes, you guessed it, I lose it.
There I was looking at the bathroom counter and seeing my makeup lined up in its appropriate order. Foundation, eye shadow, mascara, eyeliner, lip liner, and no lipstick, I know that blank space was mocking me. Now I would have gone without but I had already applied the lip liner. I looked in my purse for hundredth time before I gave up and applied a second choice.
If it was as simple as misplacing an item, I would have let it go. Yet it was as if this little tube had turn into a neon-blinking arrow to point out what a mess I have made with my life. I painted on my lips went about my day but could not ignore that feeling of inadequacy I had hit head on.
Chaotic, moody, indecisive, messy, oh the flaws are too numerous and discouraging to write down. Most of the time I can ignore them or justify this is just threads that make up the whole. Sometimes though I am overwhelmed and know I need to make a commitment to some serious changes.
As a society, inundated by the possibility of perfection, we end up feeling inferior. Self-help books promise to make us sane and better people. Decorating books can make our house seem like we have nothing better to do than build a showcase home. Cooking shows stretch our imagination and have us trying to replicate gourmet meals on the table. As the information highway parks into our offices and living rooms, remind us that perfection is just within a mouse click. We mimic experts in their fields and think we too can maintain this level. For me personally, I am always a tad off from these standards.
I hear all my friends laughing at that last line, because I have always been a ‘tad off’. Maybe that is my specialty, the skewered way I look the world we share and myself. I am a believer we all were born with a special skill that defines who we are. What we are not born with is the courage to believe in ourselves.
I believe in fairytales, in my family and friends, in the human capacity to do the right thing, in magic and tomorrow is always going to be a better day. Do I believe in myself though? I know I have the right parts and one hell of a support system. It’s just sometimes like my missing lipstick, I misplace my mental happily-ever-after manual.
Then I drop off the grid and have a few hundred shadow boxing matches with doubt and optimism being the main event. What I am beginning to realize is it not the perfection I need to achieve it is the participation. For sometimes I am so caught up with always putting my best foot forward I am paralyzed.
I do not think I am unique. I think we all struggle with these feelings, it is just we all have different ways of coping. My way is not ideal I know and I could feel superior by pointing out there are more destructive means to digress. This is one stretch of the journey I have to do without pointing fingers of blame. I have to keep walking even if it is in erratic missteps. This one flaw does need changed and removed from my life.
As for the lipstick? I found it later that night, in my purse, where it was supposed to be when not in the makeup drawer, just well concealed. I guess the moral of the story is I am where I am supposed to be in life too.
The Pursuit of Happiness (Originally Published 4/25/11)
I caught myself this past week, even as moving forward with personal goals, looking longingly at settling. It is not hard to back slide and blame it on circumstances. We all have personal demons to blame for our stunted growth. Somewhere along this line of thought, the Declaration of Independence kept haunting me.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
These words did a singsong beat on my brain until I wanted to drive to Monticello and have a heart to heart with our third president, Thomas Jefferson. How dare he give me this option.
Quick history lesson here, bear with me this is necessary. Thomas Jefferson was the major writer of the Declaration of Independence even though greatly influenced by the Virginia Declaration of Rights. He was our third president, the creator of manifest destiny, the purchaser of the Louisiana Purchase, our first Republican, the first believer of partisanship in congress, an inventor, farmer, amateur architect, avid reader and writer, and probably a good case study on ADHD.
I think he was a dreamer, and wanted it all. Yet due to the human condition, our wants and needs do not always coincide with the actual world. Jefferson was a widower in 1782, the President of a young up and coming nation from 1801 to 1809, and was very influential in our nation’s policies until the day he died. He also fell in love with his wife’s half-sister and servant and fathered six children with her.
Am I being presumptuous when I say he loved Sally Hemings? Here is my argument for my romantic inclinations. This was one powerful dude in his day; you think he could not get more convenient socially acceptable action? He let two of his children “escape” and freed the remaining two living children in his will upon his death. I am the perpetual romantic; I am calling this love.
Thomas Jefferson was a passionate man. He penned many article articles on the absolute rights of individual man yet he hid his secret family away on Monticello. In 1802 when his secret became public knowledge, he remained silent and let the public form their opinions.
Now 235 years later, I have been pondering the very essence of the meaning of the pursuit of happiness. The key here is the word “pursuit”. We are not guaranteed happiness just the opportunity to pursue it. Furthermore, as the words proclaim this is not a national right it is the right of our Creator. Let us not start the conversation of wasted gifts. Unfortunately, there is not a manual on what makes us happy, it is a very individualized journey we take and we have the right to jump rails and settle for the almost.
As I write this today, I have the realization, I have never been an almost girl. I have walked away from situations that could have made me content but not passionate about my life. I never want to quit pursuing all that makes me happy.
I think of Jefferson lying on his deathbed surrounded by those who loved him though he would not publicly acknowledge them. Did this overachiever have a twinge of anguish? Do we all have this same sense of unaccomplishment in some area of our lives in the end? I know I will, as I already have to walk softly among the explosive regrets in my head. The other alternative is to quit trying and that I think would be the most contrite error.
Unguarded Dreaming is Dangerous (Originally published 4/21/11)
I dream in epic proportions. In my dreams, I am brave, confident, and outspoken. I never dream of money, possessions (All right sometimes I am wearing awesome shoes), or castles. I dream of my passions, desires, and love.
Now though I am considering putting in suggestive measures to shake up my dream world. If I cover my walls with posters of convertible red two seaters or designer shoes, I could settle into a comfort zone. Material dominions could be much more manageable these days.
Ownership of things is income and lifestyle appropriate if you are a reasonable person. Dreams of the intangibles though may have you reaching for things you will never possess. Then you begin to question your own self. If this desire is unattainable what is wrong with me? Should not dreams be boundless with barely a hint of possibility?
Too many times, I wake up with a pit; I know I will never acquire the object of my want/need. As the day progresses I optimistically do the diagrams of the trade offs it would take. It is a doable option, for the most part. Yet I cannot do the dreaming for the other half of this equation.
If there is no will or commitment for the same goal then why I am I laying the groundwork? I do not even think there is blame to place either. I think it is the fallacy of dreaming.
Keep it simple. Desire what is possible to hold in your hand or at least wax lovingly. Objects replaced as their love wanes or wear out is an option when it is a thing to be replaced.
My heart is ready for some calm waters. The strain of trying to dream wants into reality is becoming painful enough to cause nightmares. Could it be there is just a need for the natural progression? Let it just happen and try to pick up the pieces again?
Tonight I will vision my Alfa Romeo and Christian Louboutin; then I can dream of jetting the world in style. This fantasy is just as unattainable to me. Yet I doubt this delusion will make my heart hurt in the morning.
Lacings of a Corset and the Unraveling of Family (Previously Published 4/20/11)
I know, I know; I covered the red satin corset yesterday but I apparently did not purge it out of my brain. It is still tempting me but I found another con to add to my list. If I were to purchase the desired object who would lace me up?
This thought immediately slingshots me to an evening with Tammi (Sister-in-law by marriage, but friend and sister by choice) with us building our infamous fire and conversing about random social ideas on the patio. That night we were wistfully conversing how families used to have three or more generations in the same house.
Our children have grown and scattered to pursue their interpretations of the American Dream. They are all good kids and throw us a crumb via text, face book updates or photos, and even call; but we miss their physical presence in their lives. Just as we miss the connection of other family members, yes even the annoying ones, because they really know who we were.
I know this is probably a foreign idea to this era of materialism when empty nesters live in a four bedroom with a vaulted ceiling entry for the Christmas tree and three plus cars in the garage. Yet there was a time when three generations functioned under the roof of a two-bedroom house. Maybe this was the lure of the communes of the sixties due to the influx of the suburbia movement in the fifties.
I think today’s social media is a form of communes. We can check on our friends by either hitting the like button or retweet. We can visit our page and let everyone on our friends list know we are alive and still viable. This gives us the satisfaction of being a member of the human tribe.
With our successful careers, our material testimonies, and our packed schedules we want to be on Santa’s good girl list. As we take on responsibility, we know we are a productive addition to society, not dead beats. Yet, we are lonely and tired.
When we had to stack family members like cordwood to fit in a ready to burst dwelling and thin our meals with water we had a familial connection as a payoff. Often poverty was the commonality. Even though dreams were probably of living in the suburb with everyone having his or her own bedroom, the everyday functionality of family had to be an asset.
Tammi and I were sitting on the patio enjoying the warmth of our fire thinking how fun it was to have someone to talk to as we did dishes together or just chat about random things. We both had children and husbands to talk to way back when but it was not lost on us sometimes we were lonely. Now if we had our mom and/or grandmas in the same house as we were going through these trying and uncertain years, it would have been an asset not just another mouth to feed. To share the joys and tears of a family, this should be the dream we desire. Of course, sometimes we wish for company just for selfish reasons, like someone to lace up my corset.
The Inexplicable Complications of a Corset (Originally Published on 4/19/11)
A couple of weeks ago, Donald (my brother) and I were checking out Fountain Square in Indianapolis. This is an area where there is arty revival going on. I of course was in love. We walked up and down the sidewalk a little too late because most shops closed at five. Indy Swank was opened though and we jaywalked so they would not close before we entered.
I am like a magpie when I shop, I flit around as shiny things or odd creations catch my attention. There was an abundance of things to shout ‘me first’ in this eclectic mix of vintage and local arts store. Almost missed by me was a red corset hanging on the wall, which transfixed me.
A corset, what could be more appealing to me at this time of my life? This could be attributed to my long last acceptance of my own sexuality or maybe a form of structure in my haphazard lifestyle. It could also just be a solution to this jiggle of an aging body. Regardless of the appeal, I know I want one.
Poverty has a great way of forcing pondering your desire for material things. If it is not a five-dollar purchase, I need to consider the pros and cons. Now a corset would give me a waist, probably not the Scarlett O’Hara eighteen-inch waist unless magically injected with rebar. I always enjoy dressing up to feel sexy and if I avoid the mirrors, I can believe my own hype. These are the pros.
The cons are much more interesting at this point. If I want to go all out and put on my thigh high body shaping black polka dot nylons, wiggle into my black girdle like panties, and then top it off with that red satin corset, where does the fat go? I mean seriously ladies, squirm into your favorite tight jeans, and lie day on the bed to zip and button them, and then look in the mirror. I do not know about you but I have a muffin top that could nourish a third world country.
Would it go down to my feet so I could not fit into my favorite cute but going to kill me feet shoes? Or maybe up to give me sexy pouty lips like Ally McBeal‘s? Would I be able to sit down with all this constriction? Better yet would I have to by a new outfit because all my other clothes would be two sizes too big, okay that goes up there in the pro side.
Delving deeper into this need to know journey, what if I met a sexy possible Mr. Right? Could he sue me for misrepresentation? I mean eventually there would be that intimate moment; would my stomach, ass, and thighs be folded accordion style under the pressure? Should I only pursue a man with a fondness for polka?
With the desire of an addition to my closet, I have found out once again there is a flipside to everything. Is this the sign of aging? Where you see something so delicious you have to reach out and stroke it but then walk away because it is impractical? What if I want to shun this notion? Not because it will keep me perpetually young but because without a bit of fun in your life, what is it all for? The grind, the tears, the horrors of the pain people inflict on each other can be overbearing at times. Maybe what we all need is a piece of whimsy hanging in our closet as a touchstone to the self-depreciating humor in our worlds.
I think the corset will be a bucket list item. One day before I die, I will lace up with a piece of feminine history. When that day comes, I assure you I will pop back in here to update how the true physics of a female body works.
Can Trust be a Sleep-Aid? (Originally Published 4/14/11)
I hate sleep. That is not quite true, sleep hates me is more accurate. My head does not like to shut off at night. Instead, it replays the day’s decisions, questions motives, and explores emotions.
I sleep with the TV on and let fictional characters do the stressing for me. If wrapped up in their desires and dreams, mine can quiet down. This is not a new problem of mine. I have had this ‘condition’ since childhood.
A remedy for this does not require a prescription. I stumbled on it a few years back. I resisted it at first, and then became a loyal follower.
Trust is my sleep-aid. When I am there in the moment and I ‘fit’, I am sleeping like a baby. My recent fitfulness attributes to unsubscribing my trust recently.
The tricky mechanics of trust is if you partake, you are vulnerable. There is the feeling of nakedness with no place to hide. One betrayal and you are out in the cold with no protection.
Move in solitude to assure responsibility of one’s own detriment. This should promote a good night’s sleep. Unless the prohibitive is questions of what might have been. Sans a little more effort, communication, and of course trust could have guaranteed sweet dreams forever.
This is not groundbreaking news, or new relationship discovering but it is indicative of my own personal growth. I have come to the point I know I must communicate my needs and demand a proactive listener. I cannot be afraid to speak truth because the unknown is more disruptive to my dreams.
Last night I fell asleep without my TV. Slipping into slumber holding onto words from a fellow dreamer, I was safe from fear, doubt, and self-questioning for that transitional step into dreamland. Once such potential was there for the taking, it just needed the proper tending. Could there be again?
Forums such as this could guarantee many more sleepless nights. I could transfer my fears to Ally McBeal or Carrie Bradshaw; they fearlessly crash into personal gunk as brave pioneers, with song or new shoes. On the other hand, I could hang onto that voice for the secure warmth of a mental blanket. Then again, I could just trust myself to love and communicate as simply as I feel. With no regrets, sleep surely would not be as allusive.
The Plus and Minus of Freewill (Originally published 4/13/11)
I am an advocate of freewill. I use it to justify most of my decisions. It fits in the flawed -but- still -working- on-it self image I have.
Delusional I am not, though. If I allow myself this latitude, I must make the same allowances to those in my life. As I am struggling to push against my boundaries, I have to appreciate the same from my inner circle.
This brings me to my children. Three young adults who used to be solely dependent on me for everything, now only call when they have the time. Now they are trying to decipher their own paths. I know this is the way it is supposed to be and yet…
Living and growing up together, yes, I had a lot of growing to do as I mothered my brood; we saw each other’s flaws. Being family, we quickly knew how to exploit and exasperate.
As young adults, I know they sometimes look back, pull a piece of knowledge from their childhood, and apply it. It is almost a guarantee they look at my mistakes and try to avoid the same choices. Is this successful parenting? Sometimes I question the success of the job I tried to accomplish.
I used to tell my children there was not a handbook to be a perfect mom just as there wasn’t one to be a perfect child. It was not exactly a get out of jail free card but I think it somewhat explained when Mom had a stupid attack. Still sometimes, I see them struggle and I want to go rescue them. Yet I cannot and I do not think they would let me.
I think guilt is an outfit a Mom wears better than baggy sweats. We can never make life easy for our children. This does not seem right; it is a natural instinct to protect ones young.
Then we are knocking on the door of free will again. They are exerting their independence and rolling their eyes at ole Mom’s worries. Their youth gives them the arrogance and expectant of success. I on the other hand have the freewill to outlast them - I will be there when needed.
Women and Personal Responsibility (Originally Published 4/12/11)
I was pissed off all last week. Battling PMS, employment status, and my personal shambles of what is left of my love life, the anger kept growing. Then the federal government pushed me over the edge. The bully going after the weak and poor in the nation once again was particularly hurtful.
I spent last Friday in tears. I sent hurtful text messages and warned other people not to even bother talking to me. I was retreating into myself wondering how I let myself be so vulnerable. The non-stop leakage of my tears a sign of the sense of betrayal I felt by the world.
From a practical point, this seems silly. Procreating days are behind me. My daughters knock on wood; seem to have absorbed my rants on unwanted pregnancies. Yet I remember my friends and theirs; scared young women caught in bleak situations because of bad decisions.
It is so easy to judge women when they have the outward baby bump as evidence. No one’s mind moves automatically to the erring father of the child. It stays on the woman. The one who has to afford this upcoming child; the woman who has to adjust her life to care for its ever changing and increasing needs. Our society judges and points the finger at the mother only.
I then started thinking of a woman’s nature. We tend to love more freely and trusting than our men counter parts. It is our genetic makeup to take on the trials of life with tears but the resolve to make it all better. This probably helps earn the title of the weaker sex. Most of us would not change our vulnerabilities; it defines who we are and how we love.
Yet as our own government exploits, I was growing angrier. I sat on the back porch, chain smoked, and ranted to Tammi (My smart, articulate, and fellow believer of women’s rights sister-in-law and the best decision my brother ever made.) how this was our entire fault.
We were born of women who had to work and who were smart in their own right. We grew up believing we could have it all, the career, children, and love of our lives, if we followed the rules. We tried to be good girls, raised our children with love and understanding, and expected the same respect we gave. We came home from our jobs and fixed dinner, helped with homework, did laundry, and only occasionally bitched about carrying more than our share of the load.
Patiently we waited for the world to change with us, give us our equal share, because it was only fair. We did not judge when our girlfriends too stressed to vote or read a newspaper or watch a news show. We dished about fluff TV shows, fashion, our neighbors and families. We laughed when we treated like second-class citizens because we knew the truth; we carried humankind in our wombs. Under the illusion of getting to heaven by good deeds, many of us were startled when the governing body started taking away our rights.
We live in a country that hides behind human rights. Walk up the steps of capitol hill and ask why we are in three different countries and they will give you gobbley gook human rights, the world’s policeman rushing to action. In their briefcase though are the papers that proclaim women will lie about being raped just to get a government funded abortion. Our country has a proposed 2012 defense budget of 671 billion dollars; the GOP is already calling for a fight over the 37 billion dollar decrease.
There always has to be a solution. Here is my proposed call to action for all the beautiful women in my life. These are our rights we placed in men’s hands. It’s time we take them back. Women have always been resourceful; this is a call to action.
First vote, stay informed, find your local politicians who actually like women. There has to be some out there and if not we can find some. Talk to our daughters and make them aware of how many single mothers live below the poverty line. The numbers of unwed mothers are staggering. Volunteer in any organization that supports young girls. Not all women can be good mothers, just as not all men are women haters. We need to reach the girls who need guidance from smart successful women. Role models are needed to show another option.
Any organization that gets a favorable nod in our country’s political machine has powerful lobbyist. We need to be our own lobbyists. Women have long been the keepers of the checkbook with our buying decisions heeded. It is time to tell Tide, Proctor and Gamble, Johnson and Johnson, and even our fashion designers we want our money to help educate our young women. These corporations write out big charity checks all the time. The way our tax system works, these are profitable write-offs for them. Sponsor a young girl trying to make it through college. Let us make the system work for us instead of against us.
I am not asking women to give up their own beliefs on abortion or even family planning. I am asking you to take an active step in educating our most powerful resource. Our young women are the beginning of our future, a generation that will be as strong or weak as their matriarchs will. There will still be tears and frustration over the shortfalls of this world. Yet if evened out with tears of joy over one young girl’s success, is a compromise, I can live with.
PMS, Eve, and a Time Machine (Originally Published 4/6/11)
There always has to be a why in my world. As I am fighting to survive another brutal week of PMS, my brain is finding a foothold in the logic of it all. I understand how my body works, I get the egg is never gonna be fertilized again, but to spend two weeks every month feeling this miserable. Really? Is it all because of an apple?
I lie in a curled up ball and I wonder about Eve and her desire for knowledge. I understand even when I want to condemn her. I think of this woman living in paradise with the perfect man hand-picked for her. Still it was not quite enough. I deal with my body aches and reoccurring headache and try not to be bitter.
Yet I have a kindred compassion for this flawed woman. She must have lay naked on a bed of grass, stared at puffy clouds, smelled the newness of the earth, and dreamed. Adam may have been the first created, stronger physically, and content to live in Paradise without the hindrance of knowing too much, yet his partner could not. Then along came the cunning snake (another reason to hate that creature) that placed temptation before her.
The creator dealt the punishment with a swift and harsh hand. Adam and Eve forced into a foreign world where all they had were each other and a now tenuous relationship with their maker. They had to work diligently just to survive and raise a family in this environment.
Flashing back to my PMS, which has only worsened as I journey towards menopause, I suppose it is all Eve’s fault. Yet without her transgression I would not be a mother of three bonded by being the vehicle for their existence. There also would not be this hunger to explore my world or the courage or to follow my dreams.
If I had a time machine, I would like to go and stroll the Garden of Eden with Eve. I think she could have benefited from having a girlfriend to just dish. I also think I could have helped with the transitional phase ahead of her.
I would tell her she must not take it personal when Adam pushed her slightly towards God as to say, “She did it.” He is after all just a man. To the best of his abilities, he will protect her, provide for her, and give her beautiful children. We would discuss the virtues of clothes as a way to accent and hide the flaws of an aging woman’s body. There would be drills on how to chop off the nasty head of evil snakes with sharp sticks.
The only tinkering of the future attempted would be to offer a suggestion of negotiations. Instead of hiding from her creator, she should just ‘fess up. Admit her sins and accept the punishment as grace. Yet before she exits, she should ask for a compromise. Once the baby factory closed for good, PMS should also cease.
Would the creator be offended? I find it hard to believe that there was not a bit of magic in that handful of dirt and Adam’s rib. Our creator was not cutting out paper dolls but making a human race. A species that could survive using wits and free will. Was there a possibility I could be PMS free right now? Not sure, but if you have a time machine in your basement, call me.
The Communication of Blank Pages (Originally Published 4/5/11)
This is a curse for writers. I am not sure about other writer’s but for me it is not about having ideas it is about calming the storm in my head. Then pulling down a coherent thought and trying to capture it on paper. There of course has to be a criteria - is it substantial, honest but not pointing fingers, and is it almost PG? I tend to fill my head all day with news, pop culture, music, and conversations from near and dear. Then I let random snippets filter and I analyze what I deem to be the real stuff. The pulp I am going to squeeze into words.
If you know me, you know I never shut up. I am talking the storm of life, which amuses and intrigues me. If you really really know me, you know I cannot communicate worth a damn. This could be why I write instead. For when I cannot sleep, it is what I did not say that keeps me up.
Human language started with grunts and hand signals. The grunts were mainly to get your attention and then to keep it. The hand signals were to pantomime actual needs. In this vein my talking is little more than evolved grunts. The equivalent of yes I am still breathing and I want to participate so hear me. Yet is only through my writing can I decipher my wants and needs.
I know people who are envious of me being able to do this. I in turn admire someone who can look me in the eye and say I need this from you. Honesty of this level takes a blank page, half a pack of cigarettes, and a comfortable chair for me.
Is this a birth defect? Learned behavior? Alternatively, just plain chicken shitness? (Hey, I can make up words especially since LOL is now in the Oxford dictionary.)
Of course with this dubious talent comes a responsibility. It is so easy for me to sit down at 3 AM, pick up a poison pen, and scrawl an epic rant. You want proof? Look at my dresser, hell they even have stamps on them. They will remain unsent, because even professional communicators know to keep their demons locked up.
I guess we all have blank pages before we start to communicate. This is why we prep in the bathroom to enhance our presentation. We are setting the tone, deciding on the cadence, and trying to find our comfort zone.
We all have something important to say; it just presents itself in different forums. Me? I guess I will continue to grunt until I find a comfortable chair.
Let Your Inner Princess Roar (Originally Published 4/4/11)
I am obsessed with fairytales. Yes me; the foul-mouthed, did she really say that out loud cynic. The wind-blown and sun damaged face, hair always a mess, do I have to wear a bra me. Yes, secretly I wanna be a princess.
What woman does not? Now I hear the eyes rolling back in your head but let me explain. Those princesses of our childhood were not all fluff. They knew how to work hard, deal with difficult family, befriend wildlife, and always have a song in their heart. In the end, they were rescued by true love.
The only thing false was the translation; the prince was not the rescue vehicle. It is what drives women crazy, the prince obsession. No matter how good the man of your desire is, he cannot save you. He can only hold your hand and wipe your eyes as you journey together. Somehow, we missed the real moral of the story.
Women are resilient as we go through life openly displaying our greatest asset, our vulnerability. We love the parents who can only see our flaws, the bad boys, and the children who scream they hate us. We can smile when we are taken advantage of because we know it is about the bigger prize.
A handsome prince can only enhance the life we have already built. If we live a hollow existence waiting for someone to save us, we will only hear the echoes of footsteps. What makes us vital is loving and accepting whom we are.
Sometimes bogged down in the cinders of life, we just surrender to self-pity. If we are not careful, we become the wicked stepmother or evil queen. Staring at the mirror, asking who we are and where did our beauty go, we grow ugly.
It is not about the ball gown, glass slipper, or the soul-awakening kiss, which brings us out of our life’s slumber. We must keep our heart from growing bitter. We must continue to sing and make precious friends along the way. It is the love we have inside, bigger than all the questions in our head, which saves us.
I Hate Snakes but Love My Country (Originally Published 4/1/11)
I am not even going to pretend, I hate them creepy, slithering nasty things snakes. They scare the hell out of me; they occupy my nightmares. I know they can be beneficial but I really do not care about that ecological balance shit when it comes to this. I will try to recycle and not throw my cigarette butts on the ground; are we good?
Now having made this point with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, I have a confession. I love the Bronx Zoo Cobra. The attraction is so great I have enabled her to tweet my phone. Then I obnoxiously forward these tweets to my family and friends - after I laugh for five minutes. Not since Sex and the City have, I enjoyed the voyeuristic romps around New York City.
I am not alone in my new obsession. Over 150,000 people have been following her on a witty tour of the Big Apple. The Bronx Zoo twitter account only has 4,000 followers.
Why the immediate clamor for this snippet of whimsy? I think you have to consider the alternative. We are inundated with news. It is on our TVs, radios, laptops, phones, and social networks. War, poverty, losing civil rights, political bickering instead of compromise, and any blowhard who can drag their knuckles to grab a sound bite unfortunately does. It makes some of us considering the option of looking for another country for residency.
Then we have the Bronx Zoo Cobra touring a touchstone metropolis, which we all feel an instant kinship with even though we have never even visited. This city is in our blood as much as the American flag or Mickey Mouse. Yesterday I could hear this cobra hissing the Sesame Street song as I and my children still do. I could taste the bitter dark coffee from the Mudtruck and feel the shivers of emotion of seeing Ellis Island. Citizenship to this country gives us so much more than political rhetoric.
We are not a perfect country. I honestly do not think a democratic country can be. There will always be growing pains, hell to the rest of the world we are still just unruly teenagers. There will be shifts in public opinions and a surplus of people who will never be able to see the bigger picture. I can be ashamed of the actions of my fellow citizens but still be a proud American. As a citizen, it is my duty to stay informed and vote accordingly. As a simple human being though, I can just relax for a few and giggle over a lost cobra.
P.S. Hey you sexy Bronx Bomber Cobra: Slither on over to 5th Avenue and coil around a pair of Christian Louboutin … I need a new picture for tomorrow’s profile.
Update: The runaway cobra has come back home, safe and probably needing a nap. I am going to miss her adventures and might even spring her loose if I was not petrified of snakes…
How I Became a Liberal Part 2 (Originally published 3/31/11)
It is funny how when you are young real life issues seem so far from touching you. I mean you read the headlines and sometimes even cry then put down the paper and put on a party dress. I was in love with life, my soon to be husband, my career, and youth. How many problems could there really be out there?
Then I became a reluctant grownup. I married, rented a house, bought a car, and gulp got pregnant. Now I had the mothering skills of an alley cat early on. I was a 80s girl so really all I had to do was go to work and find a good babysitter. Then in June when I was huge pregnant with my first child I watched in horror as the Tietamen Square incident played out. I was bringing a child into this world.
No longer was I isolated from the real world. I had babies to protect. I know you just missed that leap and rightly so, because it did not happen just then. It was a gradual change of convictions.
As I struggled with raising my three children, I began to bring all issues to my own doorstep. Abortion is a sin? What if it is my 12-year-old daughter molested and is now pregnant? Gays deserve the wrath of God? When my son comes and tells me he is gay, does God now hate the boy who sang in the church choir at five? No more free ride for welfare moms? How about my daughter who used to dress up as a princess and is now a mother of two and her husband ran off? Should she be judged and punished for needing a hand from her fellow citizens?
No as of yet, these have not been issues in my family. Nevertheless, they are issues to some mom who loves their children just as much as I love mine. I cry for them and hope I never forget how lucky I have been so far.
This became more pressing to me than my upbringing. It was not learned behavior anymore; it is what I was seeing outside my safe home. It is not about economics or which third world country we can shove around. I know we have to have the money to fund these programs but I also know how much money we waste as a country. The price of throwing away children is never cost productive.
It is about when we are buried in the ground nothing more than worm dirt what did we actually leave behind. A fat bank account our heirs fight over for months and now no longer speak. Alternatively, did we leave intangibles?
A tear for the suffering. A hand for the weak. A compassion for the disadvantage. Yes, I am a liberal and there are so many reasons to be disgruntled with my political party at times. Yet I sleep at night knowing I will not judge or resent someone who is beneath my current social level. For tomorrow that could be my children.
As for my Republican heritage, if I had the opportunity to explain my reasons to my Grandfather, he just might understand. Not agree mind you, but understand. For even though I no longer agree with his politics; I did learn how to love by example.
How I Became a Liberal Part 1 (Originally published 3/30/11)
I was at a parent teacher’s conference and talking to a young teacher about the upcoming election in 2008. This teacher was a joy to talk to; he was excited to be in his profession and believed he could make a difference. My children enjoyed his way of challenging them. He is also a staunch Republican and during our conversation, he asked me how I became a liberal.
Yes how did this happen? I was the poster child for the Republican Party. I turned eighteen at the end of August and in November, I voted for Ronald Reagan in 1984. I was proud and confident of my choice. I believed in trickle-down economics and come on he helped tear down the wall in Berlin. He was a comforting figure for me; he reminded me of my Grandpa … kind and wise. Remember I was eighteen picking boyfriends with a lot less thought than this but for the same outcome, security and comfort.
A fourth generation American citizen on my mother’s side made the immigrant success story still relevant. Sitting in the kitchen with my Grandparents and hearing the stories of their parents struggling to prosper was inspiring. They believed it was a level playing field and voted straight Republican ticket. I remember Jimmy Carter compared to Satan. Scary words for a girl who said her prayers at night and never missed summer bible school.
Old stories, hog markets, and the twang of country western were my foundation. I tried to be a good girl and I believed that was all that was required of me. Do well in school, smile, and good things were sure to happen. I tried so hard to focus on that instead of the happenings around me.
I ran away from my home wrapped up in the flag so there could be no protests. The Marine Corps took me in and reinforced the Republican format yet also introduced me to different people with a diverse background. All ethnic, economic, and (gasp) sexual orientation were represented in my new group of friends.
I saw people struggle following the American Dream; they were not less deserving than say an upper middle class counterpart. They just had less effective tools. We live in a society that expects everyone to jump on the success train and ride to the land of plenty. If you do not have a ticket, you are either lazy, or too damn dumb to work for your fare.
This is where I first felt the stirrings of discontent with my politics. Yet I still went to the booth and checked the Republicans, it is what I knew. I knew I was changing but underneath all those Cyndi Lauper clothes was still an Alex Keaton conservative.
The Path to True Love Via 80’s Songs (Originally published 3/29/11)
I have not been single since the 80’s, and that is daunting. Now I am tip-toeing to the edge, seeing how to proceed, and I have to admit things are going to be different. I will have to rely on more than lace socks in hot pink pumps, miniskirts, and big, big hair to compete in the dating world. Yet, there has to be something said about experience and the way it influences the way we look at things. That being said, my search for true love is going to be pursued via my favorite 80’s songs.
Through my life’s travels, I have been able to hone in on what is important. I am through with the Under Pressure (Queen & David Bowie) lifestyle. Sure, I know life is not a parade but Girl’s Just Wanna Have Fun (Cyndi Lauper)! This will get me through the rough times.
Mr. Wanna-Be Prince Charming, come over here and Hold Me (Fleetwood Mac), whisper in my ear, and tell me we can dance our troubles away. Don’t Stop Believing (Journey) this time it can be something different; we can make up our own rules. We are past living up to society’s expectations so Take Me Home Tonight (Eddie Money) and in the morning, you will still be my Angel (Madonna).
I do not have many expectations this go around. I have come to realize I am the only person who truly makes me happy. I just have a few requirements: you must always Come Dancing (The Kinks), it will keep us young; Gimme All Your Lovin’ (ZZ Top) because I still do not share well; and Magic (The Cars) never dies unless you stop believing in it.
Step right up here, let us say the vows. We can do much better than Almost Paradise (Mike Reno and Ann Wilson). What a Feeling (Irene Cara) when we embrace our individual dreams, combine them, and set sail to a new destination. Come on baby, take a chance, Let’s Go Crazy (Prince and the Revolution) and know we left nothing behind for us to regret.
Women’s Right – A Cautious Advocate (Originally published 3/28/11)
Geraldine Ferraro passed away and it saddens me. No, I never voted for her, I was a Republican then. (That is a completely different topic for another day’s blog!) The fact that I could have that privilege was a major step. This next presidential election will probably have women candidates who will be there because of our first woman vice president nominee.
I love to see women make strides in unchartered territories. On the other hand, I am very critical of those who are brave enough to attempt it. A woman that is determined to break barriers needs to be at top form. She is just not advancing herself she is representing all women.
If you are entering a typical man’s field, you had better be able to do the job description. I know there is a T&A quota in most occupations, but please earn your promotions the old-fashioned way; work for it.
Harsh? Maybe, but I speak from experience here. Employment in traditional men’s jobs is hard but rewarding when you know you deserve to be there. When you are trying to excel and Miss Suzie Q is promoted over you because she is cute, it sucks.
As we say goodbye to a pioneer in women’s advancement and look forward to the 2012 presidential election races, I want to challenge the next generation of women. Be true to yourself and be who you want to be. Work hard and break any ceiling that tries to stifle you. A woman president? I could vote for one. As long as she is there on merits and is not just a figurehead to get my vote. I mean really, just because we have boobs does not mean we are bimbos.
A Shoe a Day … Keeps Me Honest (Originally published 3/27/11)
No one who is my face book friend needs an introduction to my shoe fetish. Every day, usually immediately after the first cup of coffee and cigarette - if it is after 10:00 AM please do not judge, sometimes the muse or Ally McBeal fix strikes at 3:00 AM - I change my profile picture to the day’s pair of shoes. They of course are outrageous shoes; stilettos, furry, plastic, fringed, and accessorized with bling, straps, buckles, POLKA DOTS and sometimes red bottomed - whew I am getting almost orgasmic typing about them. Side note here - since I am in my forties and enjoying the forecasted sexual prime and a bit fearful of what to do when it ends - orgasmic is not a word I just throw around.
Let us flash to reality for a second, no it is not my favorite place, but let us. I am not a leggy blonde who can strut a pair of Jimmy Choo’s down the catwalk. I am an average forty something who does look like a mother of three. Hell when I was eighteen I looked like a candidate to be a mother of three not arm candy. Therefore, I am the equivalent of brown wrapping paper. I have made my peace with that years ago and look on my inadequacies with an ironic smirk.
The truth is I am a stalker of beauty. Like a magpie, I am attracted to the shiny things in life. There is not any better feeling to see, smell, hear, stroke or on the ultimate occasions kiss artistry. Of course, it needs to be noted, I am usually not attracted to mainstream beauty being an outcast myself. I seek out the vulnerable stark exquisiteness. What is under the social graces, clothes, skin, and bone? I am searching for the core.
Thus when I slip on a new pair of outrageousness each morning, I have put on my truth seeking armor. Embracing my whimsy, I then can meet the day’s harsh light and defy convention. Just a plain girl can become beautiful and honest by just inhaling the glamour of the world.
Till Death or Craig’s List Do Us Part (Originally published 3/26/11)
I guess with this title, I need to confess my sins. It started innocently - I was new in town and needed a new car, a job, and wanted to scout out apartments. It probably took three weeks but yup I went there. To the personals, a voyage in the sheer craziness of the human vulnerabilities, will these one day be an anthropological case study?
There are guys; poetic, almost enchanting until the fifty year old asks for no older than twenty five year old to make his dreams come true. Some have a staccato wish list, which you know they do not budge on their idea of the perfect woman. The honest type who will accept all makes and models as long as they are laid. Then you have your married guys.
They are all very committed to their relationship BUT they have no sex lives anymore. Some even proclaim their wives are okay with them branching out so to speak. Others stress discretion so wife must not be a Craig’s List peruser. A handful of married guys just want conversations with a woman. Apparently, they are not getting that at home either. Then I wonder if their wives are sitting on the couch watching Desperate Housewives and wishing their husbands still touched them like that.
Now God knows I am not judging here. It does make me a bit sad. I went into marriage because it was the next inevitable step to take. I was at the right age; and yes, all my friends were doing it. I was naïve thinking I could make anything work. I fought to keep it a viable relationship and was full of bitterness when I finally gave up. It was hard not to spit when I heard the word marriage.
It could be, I am just older and a bit broken that makes me rethink my insight. Or, because I have three beautiful young adults and I hate to see them with their hearts broken. I see bad marriages all around me. When I am ready to swear off all belief in the institution, I focus on the few good one I know of.
Those couples who get mad at each other yet never quit. The marriages that go through the sexless lulls only to celebrate with a teenage like fervor when they rediscover each other. When they hate each other as husband and wives but remember the friend they married long ago. It is an attainable plane of intimacy.
Call me an optimist. I want a forever kind of friend. Not ashamed to cry, laugh, or grow old with because there was never a perfection curve. Just an extended slumber party, in the dark where you whisper your dreams and fears to the person who would never use them against you, yes I believe marriage can be that simple. A relationship that is honest and tended to daily so all needs are met without a need for an ad on Craig’s List.
Compromise or Sellout (Originally published 3/24/11)
Human nature is a tricky beast. We have our own agendas; this is not all bad. Yet sometimes it collides with our natural urge for companionship. How does one share lives without losing individuality? Is it just I that struggles with this? I like my private journey I am on, but I do like a good conversation, a random smile, and the idea of a walking partner on the road.
It is probably my attitude that gets in the way. I do not half ass things. Once I have a notion in my head, I cannot separate fact from fiction. If something or someone is worth doing it should be a commitment until there is a final product.
The problem lies within the process. How do you compromise with another individual without losing yourself? I know how to adapt to fit in a particular situation or life which is a pro and con. I swear, at times I am just a lump of play-doh. In my ability to be compassionate and empathetic, I tend to put all needs in front of my own. This familiar trend turns to a service and before long, I am resentful. This is not who I wanted to be.
I could defer the blame to others; I just always pick wrong. Yet there have been incredible people in my life. Headstrong yes, but I am in admiration of that trait. The sole responsibility must be mine then. If I admire strength and plain ass stubbornness, how is it I cannot nurture my own? When do I get to be strong enough to validate my own self-worth? Yes, I think it is my hang up not other’s flaws.
Thus, today I will speak up for myself. I will know I am not always right, but always open to learning the correct answers. I will not be afraid to fail, because I am still strong and viable. I will not discontinue my love for people for who they are. I will accept their warts, bumps and all just as I always have. The only change will be this time I will allow myself the same consideration.
For as noted above, I love strong and beautiful people. It is just sometimes I forget I am one of them.
The Resentment of Goodbyes (Originally published 3/20/11)
Losing one’s youth can be a grim reality even for an optimist. I repeat the mantras with convictions but sometimes still disbelieve. If I was committed, I could fight the aging infrastructure with diet and exercise. If I maintain perspective, I can balance experience and emotions to achieve mental stability. I could reach the summit; I could lose my resentment of goodbyes.
Flashback to youth. It is the smell of the earth; our original source that keeps us grounded. It is the warmth of the sun, which inspires us to grow just to be closer to the light. Wind whispered encouragement in our ear; it was all in the life cycle’s scheme for us to flourish. We know no other way to live.
The promise of heaven to me was not pearly gates or streets of gold. It has always been about my departed loved ones still being in my living awareness to share my journey. I hate solitude, which echoes of accusations of inadequacies. If I do not have to say goodbye my loved ones will always be celestial touchstones.
Of course, other departures do not consist of death but are just as final. Farewell to friends and lovers whether due to geological moves or emotional necessities can be a devastating loss. Goodbyes have always meant failure to me.
I did not try hard enough quitting with that last push which could have meant nirvana. A sign of weakness when all I had to do was not judgjudge and practice Zen. Goodbyes highlight my deficiencies.
Flash-forward to enlightenment induced by maturity. Friends and lovers come into our lives because where we are in the road. If we practice status quo we would die from exposure, hunger, and hell maybe even boredom. We have to continue to travel.
Disagreements on routes taken, speed of pace, and other companions will happen. Sometimes harmony can prevail. Other times it is best to part ways.
With no resentment, I will say thank-you. The laughs and love shared forever etched in my memories. The tears of goodbye to you are of gratitude and well wishes. I will soon be able to remember the joy of the furtherance of my life instead of the pain of your departure.
Do You Ever Wonder? (Originally published 3/18/11)
I am not a churchgoer. Used to be when I was young; I loved it for years. Then fire and brimstone collided with my teenage years. I determined if I was going to hell, might as well enjoy the ride.
Now as a grownup, yes I use this term loosely, I cringe when I see religion as a bully stick. It leaves a distaste in my mouth not unlike a 80s hangover. I avoid organized religion still.
I do have devout Christians in my flock of friends. They are not flamethrowers, scorching me with their divine truth. More like lead by example, they embrace their faith by living scripture as their testimony. I have great admiration for them.
Fast forward to me writing three thousand words yesterday on faith, trying to keep a straight face. I felt a bit hypocritical as I waded into my paid assignment. “I come to your hallowed halls God, not for salvation but to scrape a living doing what I want to be.”
Research engines brought the words of God to me sans man’s interpretation. It was a familiar walk among the words of the ultimate manifest destiny. I forgot how God’s plan was one of love not judgment.
Do not panic my fellow sinners. I am not joining a convent; a commune is still a better fit for me. I will say I would not be opposed to find a place of worship that does not tell me selected people of my human brotherhood are destined to go to hell for who they ‘choose’ to be. In his image created, how can man judge this?
I imagine God is up there right now trying to hide a smirk. Here I thought I was breaking rules, rebelling against the establishment. I am sure as my Shepherd he has been watching me kick up my heels and running circles around his flock, wearing myself ragged. I know if I try to sneak back into the rank and file there will be no, ‘I told you so’. I might just catch a sly wink, nothing more, nothing less. Do you ever wonder where our free will came from?
Too Old For Cosmo? (Originally published 3/17/11)
In the days of magazines, news, blogs, and personal interests available over the web the display of magazines by the checkout usually are just blurbs to make waiting easier. Yet there is one magazine, which can still make me take out my six bucks. Cosmopolitan makes it home most days where I devour it cover to cover.
I like the slick ads and beautiful girls and sometimes their almost lucid thoughts. I thought just us plain girls had brains. I like the articles on sex and by what seems important these days. I read my love horoscope not as an actual guide but as a good fiction read. It is not all fluff though.
One of the best essays I ever read was one published in Cosmo. I was in nineteen trying very hard to be a grownup. The essay was cautious tales of listening to the baby inside of us, letting her cry, taking care of her as we hardened our outsides. This was very good advice and had nothing to do with orgasms. Just for general info though ladies, love and take care of your baby inside and orgasms are so much easier to achieve.
However, I admit to loving my Cosmo guilty pleasure I was disturbed when the latest Cosmo bachelor issue came out. First, there were no men my age to ogle over. I know I am a little out of the demographic age of their readership, but throw this aging faithful reader a bone. I read the brief bios anyway in the privacy of my own home so there were no accusations of being a pedophile in public. I walked away with an hmmmm moment.
Manscaping? I am a connoisseur of men on a small scale. I like the differences, their size, their muscles, and their hair. Now at my age there are many of my age appropriate men who have lost their hair (On their heads). I do not begrudge them as they (I hope) do not begrudge me of the sagging boobs and deepening wrinkles. However, a man with no hair on his body? I do not know about you but the last time I was dating boys without hair a quick peck out on the schoolyard was a big deal. The thought of Sam Elliott manscaping makes me cringe; I like my men the old-fashioned way, hair and all.
So yeah, anyways. Cosmo if you are listening, do not forget your loyal reader. I do not exactly want you to change your magazine; I enjoy the slick pretty pictures of the young things. Just remember us old people, we like sex too. Moreover, we all get old.
Doomsday Town Criers (Originally published 3/16/11)
I always enjoyed the idea of the Town Criers of the 17th century. The visual of a smart dressed man ringing his bell and giving me the pertinent news makes me quite envious. Modern times have done away with the town crier of course but now we have several different mediums to receive the headlines. Sometimes progress is not a good thing.
Now it is not as if I really object to bad news, I understand life is not always a parade, bad things happen. What my objections are with the spin. With the responsibilities of broadcasting must come accountability.
There cannot just be a natural disaster; people have to project their own agenda on it to explain the whys. From The Fox ‘fear’ News, to elected officials, and even our circle of friends project their own fears onto current events. It seems today if a stop sign blown down by a thunderstorm has a direct correlation to the holocaust.
Really? One of our most horrific moments in history has become cheapened by this fear tactic. We have almost become numb to the word because of its over use. Now just maybe this is the problem.
The town crier had to actually walk the town and project the news with his voice to drown out the livestock, crying babies, and the busy industrious life happenings. Today’s life noise is different with our busy schedules, our electronic gadgets, and even our social pages are drowning out the news. This could be why the news, proposed keepers of my soul, and even my unwitting friends use shock tactics to get me to look up from my self-absorbed life.
Now I must voice my own breaking news. I know I am preoccupied, sometimes flaky, and at times unreachable. Yet I have not lost my human capabilities to be touched. I mourn over the people who have lost their families and lives by a natural disaster. I shed tears over a child coming home dressed in a flag. I know I am a sinner who needs to strive to be a better representative of what my maker knew I could be.
However, I do not believe it is my or anyone else sin that has caused this. This is how life happens, always has been and always will be. There are tragedies, loss, but also joys in this journey. I will cry with the world and remember to treat my fellow man with kindness and compassion. For this is the real moral of the story: We do not know when our number is up or how it will happen. It is kindness and love; not fear that makes us productive people and the journey enjoyable. Save your scare tactics for Halloween and keep it simple. Ask the town crier, make it brief and clear, the towns people are smart enough to process the information on their own.
Letting Go (Originally published 3/11/11)
The one job no ever wants to finish is parenting. Now I will admit somewhere in the depths of changing diapers and mixing formula, trapped in a warp of inevitability, I would never escape. This phase did end though and it now seems it was only a blip on my personal timeline.
The challenge of these days is watching my children struggle, as they become productive members of society. No longer can I charge in and wipe a snotty nose and bond over a Disney movie. I can only commiserate as they stretch their legs into adulthood.
I must try to give them the knowledge that struggle shapes them even as try not to resent my own daily struggles. Even if I protest against a world, which sometimes bullies my children, I know with their perverse humor and stubbornness they will succeed. Yet when I hear the tears in their voice, I want to shield them all pain.
I know though if I closet them away, keep them from harm. I keep them from growth and sunshine. Storms they must weather and I can only offer flimsy words of encouragement instead of shelter. They do not melt though from being soaked and at times, their tenacity surprises me.
I let them go into a world I know is full of hurt and disappointment. I have the mom smile pasted on my face as I wave the forever goodbye. No more snacking on cheerios, play dough stuck in the carpet, or loads of laundry. Instead, I wait for the brief moments of reconnection when we are the unbeatable team of mother and child.
Peter Pan Philosophy (Originally published 3/10/11)
If I could choose a game plan and actually commit, it would be never to grow up. This wish is not just about dodging the grey hair, new wrinkles, or the lumpy body I have acquired over the years. It is about the ability to never ask what if and just charge through life with the silly smile of discovery. It is about letting go and being happy about it.
The acceptance of Life’s rugged roadmap and knowing the treacherous ascent will provide one hell of a view. Yet because there is a childlike adventurous spirit involved, I cannot stake my territorial claim on it. Eventually I must accept the downhill descent as just another leg in my journey.
This is when I hear my inner childhood brat protesting. It’s mine! All mine! I don’t wanna share! I’m tired and whiney and don’t want to move on. With all my guileless wonderment of life’s bright shiny objects, I must confront the inner tantrums.
The reality is no matter the avoidance; I will grow or become stagnant. Mold is not my personal favorite perfume. I must acknowledge progress as I try to keep each foot precariously balanced in the real and fantasy world.
I may cruise Never Never Land, flying through my hopes and dreams aided by pixie dust. In wonderment, I will be thankful of this voyage, my own personal fairytale. Yet occasionally, when I am on the ground throwing a fit, I probably just need a swift kick in the ass from Tinker Bell.
Scab Picker (Originally published 3/9/11)
We are all a remarkable piece of human engineering. Our bodies, minds, and even hearts are programmed to self-heal. The only glitch in the system is our own free will.
I know my body produces the scab to heal my hurts; it is a cathartic Band-Aid. If I let it be. However if I am not ready to let go of the ache and choose to peel off the healing device, the pain is still as fresh as when first inflicted.
Then why? It would be so much easier and constructive to let it be. It will eventually fade and just be a grey spot on the sunshine of life. It is what it is. Yet with the pain comes the feeling of what it once was. I am somehow comforted with the pre-injurious yesterdays.
I am not fatalist. I do believe there will be more tomorrows, even a possibility of happier conclusions. It is just today I want to peek under the bandage for another look of what was once so right.
Semper Fi (Originally published 3/8/11)
As you go through life, the higher powers like to throw out slogans to motivate. Depending on the current station of your life, these can be an asset or just some propaganda you want to swat away from your face. The Latin term was just another thing the drill instructors were throwing at me when I was eighteen and trying to figure out what the hell I had willingly signed up for.
For almost eight years, I continued to learn my role in the exclusive branch of the US Marines. Through it all, I was challenged beyond what I thought I was capable of, but refused to quit trying. It was all due to this pride that was beat into my head and my fellow jarheads.
Now I am back at a beach in North Carolina with a handful of these incredible people. It is as if the last twenty-five years disappeared; we may be greyer, a bit more nourished, and a just a few years from our prime, but we still know each other like no others. We shared an experience that has changed us forever.
As we moved on back into the civilian world to become moms and dads, employees and bosses, and jaded citizens of the world, sometimes the memories faded. Yet what we were molded into is still with us and when we embraced this, we knew we would always be the best.
We walked through Camp Lejeune and New River yesterday and it was if it were just yesterday when we were a part of this world. I think most of wanted to put back on the uniform. Once a Marine always a Marine.
Always Faithful? This was not just a slogan they taught us in boot camp; this is who we became. Thanks to the Corps and each other, we would not know how to be anything else.
Omission is Betrayal (Originally published in 3/4/11)
I learned that from The Little Black Book. To be honest, I probably always knew this but it was just a random cluster of thoughts floating and when I heard these words, it became concrete. Truth is not an easy mistress.
I was talking to my friend about her relationship the other night and even though we were poking fun of ourselves; the hurt was there. It should not be this hard; for we are not in junior high anymore, we are grownups. This should make it easier to tell the truth.
Here are the truths for myself and whoever else wants to play in my sandbox:
You do not have to say I Love You. Throwing this verbiage around is not going to make me trust you faster, only time can do that. It is not going to guarantee you getting laid. I am grownup up enough to know sex does not equal love or visa versa.
Do not say it, hell do not say anything unless you mean it. You trying to analyze me and determine what makes me happy is just wrong. I tend to believe what people say. It is my nature and I do not want this to change.
Truth is not just in our words, it is in our actions, it is in our breathing. If a breath has to be held in to keep from blurting out a thought that is pounding on the frontal lobe, you are lying.
If it takes more than you to validate your worth this will not work for me. If I am not enough of an enhancement and you need others. If I am enough for right now but iffy for the future. It is an untruth.
I guess the zenith I am looking for is when someone can say I love you PERIOD. No buts, what ifs, or for nows. I am looking for that truth.
Tom Hanks Said It (Originally published in 3/3/11)
There is no crying in baseball. My upbringing expanded on this truth. There is no crying in life. It is a sign of weakness, defeat, and just morally wrong.
I am well-conditioned to rule following, for everyone likes the nice girl. Yet I also am adept at tight roping that grey line between right and wrong. This is what keeps me sane most days.
At four, this morning my bad kitty woke me up and I felt the tears building. I have been blink blink blinking them away since. It seems you cannot start over without leaving things behind. Not all my busywork and new plans are letting me forget that today.
Thus, I grabbed my umbrella for balance and climbed the ladder. You know I am desperate when I willingly leave the ground. Stepping out on that line, I saw a vision of salvation. I have just DVR’d the movie “The Way We Were”.
Tonight in the dark, with a towel, for a box of Kleenex just is not going to be enough; I will mourn. Sometimes love is not enough and I will acknowledge that with my tears. I cry for them, that beautiful naïve couple who painfully finds this out. This is within the boundaries; it is not weakness but compassion for others.
Tomorrow with good-luck, the well will be dry. I can resume by looking forward. The outcome will turn out to be the best. Be it karma or just on good faith if you adhere to the rules you must always succeed. Right?
An End of an Era (Originally published 3/2/11)
I am divorced. It took almost three years so most of the anger, resentment, and just the sheer exhaustion of the entire trauma has mostly run its course. Yet reflections of the past have been popping up and of course there are regrets.
The biggest regret is that I wasted so much time before I allowed myself to admit there was a mistake made. I hate to admit I am wrong so I tend to try to adjust the outcome to be favorable. Now I understand people are who they are no matter how you dress them up. This includes me.
I have never before appreciated how one’s actions or more accurately in my case; inaction, could affect so many people. Hurting my children will always be the worst side effect. No matter how you justify it, they were the casualty in this war of wills. Now all I can offer them is the example of remaining true to you. It might be the most important life lesson one can learn.
It’s time to pack up the past two decades with all the would haves, could haves, and should haves and lock them away. I must pledge to myself I will listen to my inner voice. It may not always be wise but it is my truth. I also need to acknowledge there is no one but myself to blame. This has always been true, but now I am alone, this fact reverberates through the echoes of the emptiness.
This new journey I am on so begins. I vow to myself not to take the easy path because I am a true chicken at heart. I will make this a worthy decision and learn whom I am and exactly what I need to be happy. I will laugh often with others and at myself. I will never again pledge myself to someone who I cannot give my all. For if you are dishonest with yourself; you will always be alone.
I Have a Wildflower Garden of Friends & Family (Originally published 2/22/11)
They are of all shape and sizes, a representative of the American melting pot and I love them. Sometimes though I scratch my head and wonder what the hell are you thinking? For if, they are in my quasi-diverse end zone why aren’t we all celebrating each other.
My dismay comes mostly from my social networking. I open a text, face book entry, or twitter and my heart falls as if I were a mother in church and my toddler just yelled “shit” instead of “amen”. I take it personal and it hurts.
I tend to cultivate people who have deep convictions because I admire the strength it takes to be true. Therefore in my garden are conservatives and liberals, Christians and pagans, gays and straights, and a various spatter of ethnicities. They do not offend me unless their beliefs go past their arm lengths.
For that is how I define our civil liberties - we are unique personalities living in a country which allows that as long as we do not oppress. Your ideology should not punch mine. If you want to convince me your lifestyle is the “chosen” one, be an effective flower. Bloom and reach for the sun using your convictions as fertilizer.
However, if you intend to sprout runners and choke out one of my other flowering friends, be prepared. I will snip you. You are just one flower in my garden and at the end of the day, I want gaze upon my variegated bouquet.
What Do I Want To Be… (Originally published 2/19/11)
When I grow up? Um, I am forty-four; shouldn’t I be past this self-scrutiny? I am sure this rush of almost apologetic thinking to the winding forked path I have called my life comes from me having been filling out resumes all this week. A lot of them.
Due to my age and my instinctive need to please, I KNOW what various potential employers WANT me to say. Yet this is supposed to be my “Life-Changing” phase so I try to resist my better judgment. It is my equivalent to me sizing up a romantic interest - do you really want me for me? Or the fucked up signals I sometimes cannot help but send?
I KNOW HOW TO BE ANYTHING YOU WANT; at least until I can no longer look in the mirror with an ounce of self-respect.
It’s the honing chip implanted deep internally, too deep to dig out like a sick western movie scene, it is not a well-aimed arrow - it is part of my hardware. I swear my mother had something to do with this - I once had so much potential … My only hope is my newfound urge to embrace myself. This self-preserving act might build layers so deep the chip’s reception is muted.
And the job search? I am filling out so many and such a variety. It is not the minute; it is the atmosphere I crave. I’m never going to be the conventional success story with the 401K, status-projecting vehicle, or house in the ‘burbs. I am basing my desired results in my new definition of accomplishment.
What do I want to be when I grow up? The one thing I should have always wanted. I want to be me.
No More Hiding (Originally published 2/18/11)
I have always envied the strong ones who were able to run off and Join the Circus or Go West! It took such courage to leave all the security behind and just walk away. It wasn't as if I haven't always tried, I was a child who ran away quite frequently but in all actuality I didn't run; I hid and watched them look for me. Maybe it was just that I wanted to be reassured I was important enough to look for. Really I think it was because even at a young age I could visualize what might happen if I actually did leave. The fear of the possibilities made me an obedient servant of the status quo.
This time though I refuse to hide. I have uprooted myself, left behind pieces of my heart with those I love, and decided it's now or never. I want to be a participant of life. I want to touch the beauty, smell the aromas, feel the texture, and sing with the melody of this crazy entertaining world without any apologies. I know it’s not going to be easy to reprogram myself; I have always been so eager to please. In the process I hurt myself to the point I was no longer viable to those who had counted on me.
The journey begins today.
I have left my home state Nebraska once again, I did this once before when I was eighteen certain I was going to conquer the world, and I am in a new city, Indianapolis. Not really a random choice because my baby brother, Donald and his awesome wife, Tammi offered me free room and board until I get on my feet. Simplifying so all my belongings fit in a garden shed. I did find room for my former barn cat Komoneeshi, he hasn't complained so much about the major move as the surgery to remove his manhood. Starting with great enthusiasm I have filled out way too many job applications and discovered the incredible shopping in a city. Now a week into it, I am trying not to be worried when the phone hasn't been ringing requesting me to interview.
Yet I know its ok, because even if I actually went east instead of west and I have an insane fear of clowns; I'm not actually running away anymore. I am just no longer hiding. That is enough progress for today.