Letters, Therapy and Music to Heal the Soul

Sometimes its just like that… you start out writing a letter to a friends kid and it ends up being to you.. and your friend and her kid… and maybe a few other people you know. Hell maybe a lot of people need it. But mostly it was about my struggle with resentment toward my dad, my inability to get past some shit I fully blame on him.

My missive started as a note about how we, as children, like many of the most amazing things in science, are not only what we appear to be. We are an amalgamation of intricate detail. We are made up of so many things. Some good, some beautiful, some complex, some completely incomprehensible, some ugly, some insincere, some repulsive and some that want to admit is part of us. But all those tids and bits are what makes us who we are. And we as a whole are greater than than the individual bits that make us. What does this have to do with anything and why am I writing this to someone elses child? She doesn’t like her dad. (I don’t blame her, he is a piece of shit and I know a bit about dads that are pieces of shit). He isn’t a good person. She and her siblings struggle with the same self loathing I and my siblings struggle with because our whole is made up of some bad parts.

Fortunately we are not our parts. Without an arm, we are still human. But we are not the same human we were with that arm.  That specific arm, no matter its state, formed part of who we are. So I wouldn’t be who I am without the contribution of my dad, however bad I may think it, and my friends daughter wouldn’t be the amazing person she is without all her components either.

My last therapy session started with a song… My therapist was rather speachless for a bit then reminded me I dedn’t really need to see him. I have a penchant for self analysis. I know this, yet I can’t fix the resentment and anger. So we talked about the words and the song and the singer. I’ve written about Austin Lucas before and how his songs have helped me through other things in my life. At the time I played this and talked about it with the shrikydink I hadn’t come to the realization I did when writing this. Nothing he did, said, or didn’t do or say can make me who I am… but it contributes to my whole. I like the whole. It is rough and needs constant work to keep from becoming a bag of shitty parts.

Somebody Loves You

Easy there, old man
I’ll drop you where you stand
You wear wings of white but I smell your hellfire
Cause I know who you are, a racist and a coward
And all you’ve got to show for life is dust

Cause you lay roses on the ground
And turn lies to common wisdom
You’re a good man when it suits you
Yes I know

But whatever good you’ve done
Is dwarfed by mountains made of wrong
And your savior may forgive you but I won’t

Oh but somebody loves you
I guess they don’t know better
There’s a fool for every fool
And somebody loves you
Oh yeah somebody loves you
And how can it be true
There’s a fool for every fool
And somebody loves you

It was from you I learned some men cannot be trusted
And from you I learned some friends do not inspire
Cause you were like my brother
But you filled my heart with anger
And I’ll thank you when those lessons have helped at all

Oh your stories gave me life and they flowed through me like wine
But they were darkest pitch-black arrows to my soul
Yes I was your true believer now my bones do shake and shiver
With a poison that does rot me to the core

Oh but I did once love you
I guess I knew no better
Yes I was once that fool
And I did love you
Oh yes I did once love you
And how can it be true
That I was once that fool
And I did love you

And like some ghastly phantom voice, lifelong companion
Or a devil on left shoulder, lashing tongue
I spit crescents, spite filled language like some drunkard
To the heavens, when to hell he knows his spirit’s surely bound

Yes I lay roses on the ground and deceive you beyond wisdom
There’s a good man in the shadows, so I’m told
But whatever good I’ve done
Is dwarfed by mountains made of wrong
And that truth comes cold to blacken out the sun

Oh but somebody loves me
I guess they don’t know better
There’s a fool for every fool
And somebody loves me
Oh yeah somebody loves me
And how can it be true
That somebody loves me
Somebody loves you

 

Maybe I’m still resentful. Not as much as yesterday. And not nearly as much as when I last met with the shrinky dink. I still think this song speaks more about my relationship with my dad than I could ever write on my own, At least for now. But I’m working on that. 

And sometimes it’s just like that… you walk through a shadow and notice your own, and it isn’t as bad as you once thought it was. 

 

All Aboard!

dear 2015I started writing a re-cap of 2014. Then I started writing a letter to 2014. Then I decided that all the self censoring is making it difficult to know where to start. So…. fuck it. I have closed the lid on 2014. I have given myself permission to let last year go. I have decided that I will not look back and rehash all the mistakes I made, even though some of them are super funny and blog worthy. I will not give in to the temptation to dwell in the negativity pool, even though its water is just the right temperature and they let you have tasty-fruity-boozy drinks, with little umbrellas, on your raft.

Instead I will welcome 2015. I will ride the express along it’s unknown path, but I will probably fasten my seatbelt for safety.  I will not be making any silly resolutions. (my fear of failure will only allow those I can keep with certainty anyway.) But I will make some plans. I will have some goals. And they will result in prizes that make achieving them a worth while endeavor. (I have not yet chosen the prizes but they will be awesome.) I will ride my bipolar express right in to 40’s inner circle and I will make it my bitch. (Why doesn’t 40 have a catchy rhyme, like dirty-thirty? Sporty-Forty doesn’t sound as fun to me… it sounds like work, and sweating and a spicegirl in business) I will embrace the gray hair and the wrinkles. I will embrace my inner cougar and the animal print accessories she forces upon me. Okay, to be honest, I probably won’t “embrace” the gray hair, I will continue to color it… But, not because I have gray hair. I will color it because I like my hair red, or plumb or stripey. But… I will not be upset when I see a new gray hair because frankly, I earned that shit.

This year, I will grow as a person. I will recognize that I have no control over the express train’s path, but I do have control over my reactions to the ride. I cannot control what other people think of me. But I can control how I treat other people. I cannot make my family understand me or my choices. I can’t make everyone happy. The only thing I can control is myself. If I want to be better in any way, I have to make it happen. And I will make things happen.

The bi-polar express is ready to roll. Please keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times for your own safety. Clothing is optional, however shoes are not.

follow the link to buy Erin Smith’s art… do it!

 

not quite a .38 special

I know, I know… before you launch into a tirade about how I should be writing more, and it’s cathartic, and will cure whatever ails me.. piss off.

Okay, okay, I didn’t mean it. I want you here, but (and it’s a Star Jones pre-surgery sized butt) only if you are prepared for the older, not necessarily wiser, unfiltered, unadulterated, unashamed madness that is sars at 37. Because suddenly I found myself staring down the barrel of .38 trying to figure out where 37 years, a bunch of dreams and half my mind had gone. Shit (y’all). shit… Where the fuck did 37 years go? Why do I have all this shit to say causing me ocular leakage, filling my sinus’ and giving me a goddamned headache? Why indeed! I created my own fucking happy place and I intend to use this shit as I see fit. So the warning sign that some fucking hipster kicked over has been reinstalled in a concrete post hole and The Social Assassin has it in his sites (don’t fuck with him, he pulls no punches and will make you cry for years to come.). That being said, well… I don’t know, I make this shit up as I go. Long before the advent of pinterest or someecards or any of those places, I would quietly collect and share little quotes, words of wisdom with people through writing and correspondence. (and maybe the occasional framed card or something) You remember writing on paper don’t you? I am a walking pinterest board with all the quotes I have collected over the years. So as I stare at 38 I decided to share some shit, not necessarily just quotes, or some gold or some golden shit… whichever it may be. So without further adieu…

Buddha said “All life is suffering.” Y’all know I love me some Buddha. If I were Buddhist I may sit here and tell you how we should forgive all, trust everyone and allow ourselves to be in the moment and be one with our suffering because it is the way to achieve enlightenment. Horse. Shit. I do believe we should forgive, we should let go of the past – but (there is that but again) we have to learn whatever lesson we were supposed to from whatever shit hit our fan. Otherwise we suffered for no fucking reason. Because that Buddha, was right (again) when he said “Holding on to anger (or insert resentment – I do) is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at the one who wronged you. You are the one who gets burned.” I’m not saying forget everything… just move forward. It is important to remember… remember what we learned from the hurts we feel, remember the times we fall on our ass, remember the people we lost because we fucked up royally… equally as important is to remember the people who fucked up and hurt us, so we don’t fall for the same trick again. We should learn from our suffering because Buddha may have said that all life is suffering, but ya know… he never said you have to suffer to live. I think every time we move forward and learn from the mistakes of the past, maybe, we can prevent a little suffering in our future.

Facebook is not a substitute for life. If you are reading this you probably know that I hate Facebook. The only reason I am on there is guilt. I probably need to work on that to prevent some suffering. Anyhow… we are the age of technology rapidly becoming the age of completely connected. This sounds good on paper.. er.. screen, but we are losing touch with each other as human beings. We are becoming isolated, lonely, and forgetting that we need each other. Put the cellphones, iPads, tablets of another variety, laptops and netbooks away for a bit and have dinner with your spouse, significant other, kids and friends. Remind yourself and them, that reality is where you look at each other, touch, hold hands, hug, laugh, cry, scream, find out that things are happening because someone’s mouth spoke the words, not because someone random posted something they heard from the neighbor on facebook. Take an entire day without tech. Can you do it? Send a birthday card without posting a witty abbreviated message on their wall. I read a cover story for The Atlantic recently that dug in to the meat of this very topic. (there have been several articles disputing The Atlantic’s story, my opinion on these articles is they are written by people that do nothing but play on facebook, they don’t understand reality and personal contact.) It took deleting my facebook completely to realize who my real friends actually are, and it isn’t the people who tell my boyfriend how great I am but never bother to tell me to my face. I am more than the number of “likes” or +1’s that my post has. I am more than the number of views on my blog. I am less than the number of friends I have on Facebook, and that suits me just fine. Because at the end of the day ~when I find myself fading I close my eyes and realize, my friends are my energy.~ I said friends, not facebook… that would just sound dumb.

I had a more amazing nuggets of wisdom to impart, but I decided that it has taken me a month to post this so I may want to speed this along. Plus it gives me some shit to post over the next few days. I feel some blog vomit about to happen and it will not be for your children. Because sometimes it’s just like that, you look in the mirror and you aren’t 21 anymore. And it’s a good thing, at 21 you are afraid to say the word cunt.

this is not about you

If you build it, they will come….
If you sit and stare at it, words will appear…

That should work right? Okay lack of words is not the problem, it’s too many swirling in my head and not really knowing how to string them together in some coherent way that someone other than myself may want to read. Then again, is that the point? Well, it seems it’s become the point and that may be my issue. I seem to have lost that abandon with which I used to approach my writing. Back then I would sit at some random place with some random beer and write (yes with a pen) the skeleton of what would become my next blog. I continued writing merrily when the pen gave way to the portability of a 15# brick of a laptop. During the brick era is when I found I had readers. I panicked a little (someone reads my shit???) but trudged on affording protection to the guilty, only because I myself wished to remain anonymous. And then all shit hit the fan. I found out family read my shit. Maybe not regularly, maybe not even often, but they did.

well fuck.
The words in my head ceased to allow themselves out through my fingers. And before you say at least had a journal… uh no, the words weren’t hap-nin there either.

well fuck.
Periodically I’d be inspired by something and sorta safe writing would happen. I’d even had a brief reprieve from the verbal constipation while I changed up all my psych meds and had no filter (not a chance bitches, don’t even think it… you shut your pie hole or I will cut you). And on occasion I can still tap into that filter-less freedom. But not often.

Do you realize that when you write a blog it is basically a journal to which you’ve given the world a key. Like it or not anyone… that’s EH-KNEE-ONE can stumble upon your shit or troll for your shit if they really want. Even the most careful person leaves behind crumbs that someone could follow (note you’ve never seen my face and I’ve never said anyone’s name. And no, my parents were not angry activists or suffering from a trauma leaving their tongues partially paralyzed causing them to think hey… sars is a good name for a girl.). So when you start venting about your sister-cousin and her giant goiter… if she can operate her nubbin, she can read your shit. And when you got pissed because you had to lance mama’s boil for the sixth time because she didn’t want the hawt young Dr. Thibodaux to see she’d put on “some weight”… If she can get uncle LeRoy to show her how to find “Dr. Oz on the computer thang”, she can read your shit. Thus I filter. Though I have no sister-cousin or Uncle LeRoy, I do have this ‘I’m not catholic’ “Catholic Guilt” that plagues me. It tells me if I write about my mom or sister or a friend in a not so glowing light, they will read it and be offended. (They probably just felt me type that and will know they have to check my blog) I could just be good ‘ol fashioned venting, but they’ll never know and think it’s something different. And since my anonymity is shot there – my family and friends know who I am… ugh.

So I filter.
well fuck.
At this moment I have a head full of things ready to tumble out but I filter. BUTT… (that was a big butt for those still playing) I have things to say. Things I want, need to say.

I have touched on having a behavioral health disorder (the preferred term around here – I honestly don’t give a fuck what you call it, as long as after you find out you still call me friend) that has been “classified” Bipolar II (and even then, that is a label more for insurance than me). Basically (the super dumb version) is depression with periods of “hypomania” or not quite mania. For me this is linked to anxiety. (yay!) This is a tough topic to broach sometimes as there are those that don’t understand because its all “psycho-babble mumbo jumbo”. And when writing, I don’t preface with: ‘Warning this blog contains bipolar content or mom look away, I’m talkin’ about being fucking nutter right now!’ However, it gets across in a roundabout way sorta. Because I filter the fuck out of things when I am cycling instead of embracing the moment and letting my filter go. According to my besties, I am my funniest, do my best writing when I am anxious. Lots of jokes get made about being bipolar – I make jokes about being a Gemini and bipolar, but the reality is I got off easy because mania is a bitch. I will cut my tangent short here and save it for a depressed day.

Basically what I’m saying is my filter is clogged and I don’t want to pressure wash it. As Zimm said, I’d have to wring it out because you can’t stick that shit in the dryer it won’t fit anymore! So, I’m just gonna leave it at the curb. Let the er Engineers take it with them along with all the other waste. Filter-less writing is better writing.

Sometimes it’s just like that… you have to apologize in advance to the people you love because your intent is not to hurt their feelings. But you just need to say what you need to say, even though you have made clear before “if you don’t like it, don’t read my shit”. This time – it’s a pointed warning. So here it is, and you may never see it again:

 

~posted from my tablet thingy~

[youtube]http://youtu.be/TLjrD-oXkhA[/youtube]

 

No! Sensei!

Sometimes its just like that… you wake up because you have to pee (for the third time that night) and look over at the clock (like you do every time – mainly so you can torture yourself about the fact that you can only last two hours before your bladder feels like it will burst!) and realize it is forty minutes past when your alarm was supposed to signal that it’s almost time for you to join the drones. I don’t know about you but I hate waking up then getting that evil rush that says ‘holy fuck I’m gonna be late!’.  I prefer that warm rush that says… ‘mmm whatcha doin down there?’ Sadly I had the former rush and would have had to refuse the latter anyhow because of some unexpected issues. I had been subjected to an assault on my ever so sensitive netherdermis.

I may have forgotten to mention this may or may not be slightly or maybe a touch more than slightly graphic?  and by may or may not I mean may and by slightly or a touch more than slightly, I mean yes. And while I may not mind anyone who happens to have access to this reading about the following true (seriously, I am not a fiction writer and couldn’t make this shit up if I had a $20,000 advance) event, I will be kind enough to give fair warning there will be much talk of my who-ha.

Okay, back to the front, or the down to the below, whatever. When I was shocked out of bed by said lack of alarm, I was also put off the normal things I would do during the 4 times I hit the snooze button. Things like roll over so I will get cuddled and have the possibility of rush number two, or start trying to figure out which color of the 27 long tanks I have to wear under the two other layers that will be over it. I will wonder if the coffee was made and mostly I will wonder can I hold it for 10 more minutes without damaging my bladder? So to avoid the damage, I got up and whilst ambling to the bathroom I felt it… the sore-stingey-I used a dull razor to shave feeling – intensified by that (prickley 5 o’clock shadow -as a man might say, but really we have no name for it other than ‘time to get waxed!’) feeling of my jammie bottoms sticking to the little pokey hairs above my happy place. I may have been able to handle this without an issue because, lets face it, we get the prickly pear. It happens, whatever. But this was combined with a ‘I spent last night doin some kinky shit but didn’t get the t-shirt’ ache’. I was not doing kinky shit and had not shaved with a dull razor… I had a bikini wax. The day before.

For those that have never had the house of milk and honey (or the home of jewels) taken down to the parquet… It is not a process that comes without cost, both monetarily and physically. Unless pain is part of your pleasure (I don’t judge) or your threshold is almost nonexistent (mine is pretty high) you must go into your appointment prepared for at least a little pain. As someone who has had this done probably a hundred times over the years, I had no reservations and was actually rather relaxed. I’d made an appointment with someone new, at a highly reputable and well known salon that has been around forever – maybe not forever, but a long time. I trusted that whoever I saw would be fine. And my appointment was with one of their most experienced Estheticians. Maybe I should have realized that ‘experience’ can just mean age and possibly a desire to pretend one is young by trying to fit in with the hip crowd.

I arrived and was quickly ushered in to the esthetician’s room and told to “get out of [my] britches and there is a towel. I’ll be back.” Looking back, I should have run. Where are we?? West-bygawd-Virginia? What professional talks like that? Especially one who will be gettin up close and personal with my vah-jj and rippin’ hair out while she’s there. But before my better sense kicked in she was back. So, I put in my headphones aaand promptly took one out. Apparently headphones in don’t mean ‘I don’t want to talk‘ to everyone. I did however, leave one in to keep my balance and not forget to breathe. I would have done this anyway, but in this case… life-save-er. Thank you APC, really… more than I can tell you APC’s ‘Gravity‘ may have saved a life (not my own).

Like I said, my wits didn’t work so she was back. First, she pulled off the towel off and started inspecting. I’m not sure about y’all but… but that was a first. I was offered no disposables or anything for that matter. Just me layin there half clothed with my socks on like some kind of bad scene out of Striptease only with less lube and cowboy boots and Demi Moore when she looked awesome and Burt Reynolds when well.. and a lot less funny. I guess I passed inspection, so the waxing began.

First strip down, cool. Second, okay. Third, not so bad. For one silly second I thought ‘wow, this is way less painful than I recall’. Silly, silly sars… getting ahead of yourself is never a good idea. Because wait, that’s more wax in the same spot, and then again. Um, pardon me but, aren’t you supposed to like take care of that on the first pass? Hell, I could use some Nads from Target and rip off hair from the same spot 4 times but I’m paying someone to not have that happen. You are supposed to be like the dude who cuts the grass at the baseball field… one pass and the shit is perfect. I’m not so sure I’m okay with this. But too late to worry about that (I have no desire to look like the nether parts of the 40 year old virgin) so forward we go…

I was feeling a bit sore and a tad uncomfortable but I could tell where we were in the process and knew there could not be this kind of torture in the next section. The lower field is usually easier  and I simply don’t have enough hair to require multiple passes! (Really..if that was tmi, forgive.. but, gerald f.! you are readin about me gettin my shit waxed… ??) Thus the next application felt a  little bit, okay who am I kidding, a lot-a-bit different than any of the others and I kinda said ‘that’s different’.  Her response to my query, ‘oh, we,re gonna use hard wax for the sensitive area.’ Alright, no worries, err.

“u-um… pardon me that’s a little too hot”.
“I probably just got some off the bottom, it’s the right temp, I checked.”

I’m going to skip the details about  starting to take it off before it was hard enough (stop it!). All I can say is.. Maybe it wasn’t ready because the shit was too hot and taking a while to cool being it’s in a warm area of my body… ya think?!?

I mentioned the temp again and the third time

“wow, that is a lot hotter than I thought it would be, really. kinda uncomfortable”
this I was met with (I shit you not) “its the perfect temperature it just feels hotter because I’m inside you”.

*insert loud sound of tires coming to a screeching halt…* Please hold. ‘because I’m inside you’ There is only one person allowed to say the words ‘I’m inside you’ to me. This chic was about a foot to short, minus a cock, and the bulbous fake tits are not what I prefer, so it sure as shit wasn’t her. (That is another blog entirely so sorry)

All of this… Repeating spots, meh… Wax too hot… meh. Uncomfortable verbiage, meh… None of this was all that bad Until I noticed she had a little pair of scissors. You know like men use for their nose or ear hair when they are some where around 90 and have forgotten there are electric tools and people for that shit. Again, I’m not so sure about you, but when someone who is up close and personal enough with my vaah-gene to use the words ‘inside me’ without even buying me dinner first, has muthafukin scissors in her hands, I’m more than worried. I bypassed worried and went straight to anxious, wondering how to teleport some Xanax out of my bag. She tells me she needs to trim some hairs. Okay, I can see that, be gentle and carry on. Next more scalding wax of doom and I feel a little well stuck if you will. Yes friends, she has used her doom wax to close me off. The netherlips were sealed. Apparently they had secrets and have been frightened enough by the sealing and the ripping that you will never know. In my panic I lie wondering if she was going to perform some sort of vagino-plasty, so I was again trying to espn the Xanax with every cell in my brain. As I tried without success I realized there was a foreign object in the region just below the region setting off the alarms. And said object was making a snipping noise.

What. The. Fuck?!       over.

Is she using the grandpa nose scissors on my vah-j seal of doom? Why yes, yes she is. I thought that alone was going to make me vomit as visions of all sorts of damage flashed before my eyes, distracting me for a split second… just long enough for me lose trac of where said snippers were in relation to my anatomy. And I certainly woke the fuck up when those grandpa slippers poked me in right in my magic button. Straight shot to the center of the target and holy hell bitches! I was definitely alert and let out enough of a noise for her to stop, but not enough to slip and slice. All I could think was ” please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood.”

I lie there mortified and I think I held my breath the rest of the time I was there. I had no desire to anger whomever I had pissed of to receive this punishment.

When she finally cleaned me up (if that’s what we call that) I dressed, paid and left. I had no desire to re-live the trauma right then and no desire to look jigsaw in the eye while trying to explain.

Prickly hairs, meh. Wax too hot, meh. Re-waxing the same patch-o-snatch four times, meh. Leaving bits of wax and residue, again meh. All these things mean nothing when your beautiful little flower is stung by the scissors of death. After a little time to let the inflammation die down and to consult with two Esteticians that I know (just no longer in the field) yeah… I called the salon and had a little chatty chat with the manager. I was nice, I was brief, I did not give the detail I do here, I even left out some stuff. But she was extremely displeased. In fact she was ready to just refund me after ‘still have prickly hairs’ and multiple passes’ and ‘um, its too hot’. But when I touched on the hot button topic, money returned and free services as well. I wasn’t looking for that, I’m not sure I want to go anywhere near there, but at least I know they heard and someone understood.

So sometimes it’s just like that… you go for routine maintenance that turns out to be a page out of Norman Bates torture treasury. However, there is always a lesson to be learned from even from Jigsaws Funhouse: ask around and research well before you go to someone new. (Especially when they are touching your lady bits) Because been around may just mean old. And is reputable does not mean good, it just means they can charge more and have nice drapes.  Also if your Esthetician looks like she’s fifty-three and had enough procedures to feel she should try to fit in with the hip young kids… run.

My lesson… STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY WHO-HA WITH MUTHAFUCKIN GRANDPA SCISSORS!

Sometimes its just like that… you wake up because you have to pee (for the third time that night) and look over at the clock (like you do every time – mainly so you can torture yourself about the fact that you can only go two hours before your bladder feels like it will burst!) and it is forty minutes past when your alarm was supposed to signal that it’s almost time for you to join the drones. I don’t know about you but I hate waking up then getting that rush that says ‘holy fuck I’m gonna be late!’ I prefer a rush that says… ‘mmm whatcha doin down there?’ But no, sadly I had the former rush and would have had to refuse the latter anyhow because of some unexpected issues. I was subjected to an assault on my ever so sensitive netherdermis. 

Oh, did I forget to mention this may or may not be slightly or maybe a touch more than slightly graphic? And while I may not mind anyone who happens to have access to this reading about the following true (seriously, I am not a fiction writer and couldn’t make this shit up if I had a $20,000 advance) event I will be kind enough to give fair warning there will be much talk of my who-ha.

Okay, back to the front, or the below. When I was shocked out of bed by said lack of alarm I was also put off the normal things I would do during the 4 times I hit the snooze button. Things like roll over so I will get cuddled and possibly shock number two, or start trying to figure out which color of the 27 long tanks I have to wear under the two other layers that will be over it. I will wonder if the coffee was made and mostly I will wonder can I hold it for 10 more minutes without damage? So whilst ambling to the bathroom I felt it… the sore-stingey-I used a dull razor to shave feeling – intensified by that (prickley 5 o’clock shadow on a man, but really we have no name for it other than ‘time to get waxed!’) feeling of my jammie bottoms sticking to the little pokey hairs above my happy place. I may have been able to handle this without an issue because, lets face it, we get the prickly pear. It happens, whatever. But this was combined with some ‘I spent last night doin some kinky shit but didn’t get the t-shirt’ ache. I was not doing kinky shit and had not shaved… I had a bikini wax.

For those that have never had the house of milk and honey (or the home of jewels) taken down to the parquet… It is not a process that comes without cost, both monetarily and physically. Unless pain is part of your pleasure or your threshold is almost nonexistent you must go into your appointment prepared. As someone who has had this done probably around one hundred times in the past, I had no reservations and was actually rather relaxed. I’d made an appointment with someone new (keep track here) but since it was a highly reputable and well known salon that has been around forever – maybe not, but a long time. I trusted that whoever I saw would be fine. Ah-no. Really, big no. I should have realized that ‘experience’ can just mean age and a desire to pretend one is young by hanging out with the hip crowd.

I was quickly ushered in to the esthetician’s room and told to “get out of [my] britches and there is a towel. I’ll be back.” I should have run. What professional talks like that? Especially one who will be gettin up close and personal with my who-ha and rippin hair out while she’s there. But before my wits kicked in she was back. So I put in my headphones and then promptly took one out because apparently headphones in don’t mean ‘I don’t want to talk’ to everyone. I still left one in to keep my balance and not forget to breathe. Thank you APC, really… more than I can tell you APC may have saved a life.

Things were all well and good, until she pulled the towel off and started inspecting. I’m not sure about y’all but… but that was a first. I was offered no disposables or anything for that matter. Just me layin there half clothed with my socks on like some kind of bad scene out of Striptease only less funny. Thus my ordeal began.

I guess I passed inspection, so let the waxing begin! First strip down, cool. Second, okay. Third, not so bad. For one silly second I thought ‘wow, this is way less painful than I recall’. Silly, silly sars… getting ahead of yourself is never a good idea. Because wait, what’s that? More wax in the same spot, and then again. Um, pardon me but, aren’t you supposed to like take care of that on the first pass? Hell I could use some Nads from Target and rip off hair from the same spot 4 times. You are supposed to be like the dude who cuts the grass at the baseball field… one pass and the shit is perfect. I’m not so sure l’m okay with this. But too late now so forward we go… Oh, you thought that was it, ha!

There I was feeling a bit sore and a tad uncomfortable but I could tell where we were in the process and knew there could not be this kind of torture in the next section. I simply don’t have enough hair to require multiple passes! (If that was tmi, forgive but, gerald f.! you are readin about me gettin my shit waxed…) The next application felt a  little bit, okay who am I kidding, a lotabit different than any of the others and she said, ‘oh, we,re gonna use hard wax for the sensitive area.’
Alright, no worries, then came the hot wax. mmkay. “pardon me that’s a little too hot”.
“I probably just got some off the bottom, it’s the right temp, I checked.”
I’m going to skip the starting to take it off before it was hard (maybe because the shit was too hot and taking a while to cool being its in a warm area of my body… ya think?!?)
The third time I said this I was met with (I shit you not) “its the perfect temperature it just feels hotter because I’m inside you”.

*insert loud sound of tires coming to a screeching halt… Please hold. ‘because I’m inside you’ There is only one person allowed to say the words ‘I’m inside you’ to me. This chic was about a foot to short, minus a cock, and the bulbous fake tits are not what I prefer so it sure as shit wasn’t her.

But I digress, that was really not a big deal. Repeating spots, meh… next she reached for the little scissors. You know like men use for their nose or ear hair when they are some where around 90 and have forgotten there are electric tools and people for that shit. So again I’m not so sure about you, but someone who is up close and personal enough with my vah-j area to use the words inside me without even asking, has muthafukin scissors in her hands, I’m more than worried l’m wondering how to teleport some Xanax out of my bag. She tells me she needs to trim something. Okay, carry on then. She applies more scalding wax of death and I feel a little well smothered, stuck if you will. Yes friends, she has used her death wax to seal me up. The netherlips were sealed. Apparently they had secrets and now they have all been ripped away so you will never know. Wondering if she was just going to perform some sort of vaginoplasty, I was again trying to espn the Xanax when I realized there was a foreign object in the region setting off the alarms and it was making a snipping noise. What. The. Fuck?! over. Is she using the grandpa nose scissors on my vah-j seal? Why yes, yes she is. I thought that alone was going to make me vomit as visions of all sorts of damage flashed before my eyes, distracting me for a split second… just long enough for me not to notice where said snippers were in relation to my anatomy. But I certainly woke the fuck up when those grandpa slippers poked me in my bean. Straight shot to the center of the target and holy hell I was alert and let out enough of a noise for her to stop, but not enough to slip and slice. All I could think was ” please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood.” I was mortified and I think I held my breath the rest of the time I was there.

Prickly hairs, meh. Wax too hot, meh. Re-waxing the same patch-o-snatch four times, meh. Leaving bits of wax and residue, again meh. All these things mean nothing when your beautiful little flower is stung by the scissors of death. After a little time to let the inflammation die down and to consult with two people I know that are esteticians (just no longer in the field) yeah… I called the salon and had a little chatty with the manager. I was nice, I was brief, I did not give the detail I do here, I even left out some stuff. But she was extremely displeased. In fact she was ready to just refund me after ‘still have prickly hairs’ and multiple passes’ and ‘um, its too hot’ but when I touched on the hot button topic, money returned and free services as well. I wasn’t looking for that, I’m not sure I want it, but at least I know they heard and understood.

So sometimes it’s just like that… you go for routine maintenance that turns out to be a page our of Norman Bates torture treasury. However, there is a lesson to be learned from my ordeal that is not: ask before you go to someone new, just because the salon has been around and is reputable does not mean good or if your esthetician looks like she’s fifty-three and had enough procedures to feel she should try to fit in with the hip young kids… run. The lesson is, STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY WHO-HA WITH MUTHAFUCKIN GRANDPA SCISSORS!

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Sarah Whipple
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the slope

I don’t think I’m boring, well, maybe I am boring. I never used to think I was boring. Okay I’m not its just one of those days.

Sometimes its like that when you are sitting listening to your friend talk about her life and things… I think I may have fallen off into the abyss of canned pears in heavy syrup boring. I never used to think that. I never used to think I was vanilla but lately when I look in my closet at the 25 long sleeved plain colored layering t-shirts I start to think there is a distinct possibility mensa may skip my house in favor of other applicants (mine were written in sharpie you know, color makes a statement).

So lately I’ve been feelin a little on the short scale of the bell curve. I’m feelin kinda like that kid who’s friends point over there, then swipe his chocolate milk because he looks, over there, every time. And then wonders where the hell he put his chocolate milk.

Today is a blue day. A Vanilla blue day. My real life is full of amazing and creative and brilliant and fearless people. I have been on a mission to slough of those that suck away my own creative energy… and yet still… today.

I feel like I am staring through the window watching the cool kids. I’m wearing my cute clothes that make me have a girl shape and I am here, staring… watching through the window hoping that instead of just wandering out on occasion to say hi or chat or get away from the annoying bitch they came with and laugh with me for a minute, they’ll want me to come in… and hang out, sit at their table. Maybe some of whatever it is they have will spill onto my plate and it will make me feel less small. Maybe I won’t feel so weak and vanilla. Maybe I will remember how it used to be to be pink. Yesterday. And then I can get out of this bed and pick up that magazine from the New York Times Sunday Paper that keeps taunting me, and I can remember…

 

WoW: FuckSox Friday on Wednesday

A Blank page is staring at me. It’s been this way for a week and it’s unnerving. There’s this unseen pressure about where to start and what to fill it with. So I go read other peoples pages… oops, not the best idea really… now there is a further desire to be funny or profound or informative or shit just funny… But I have a story and FuckSox Friday needs to have some stuff in it stockings. I have some crazy shit to share, shit that makes the track of my bipolar express, and this may be the push I need to do it. So I will attempt to make the page not blank. As always keep your rose colored glasses handy.

Becca had this lovely flow, this prose-esk way of writing her Familial Friday and starting with “I remember…” I love that. It took me with her back to her space, along with her to her memory. I don’t have anything quite so lovely, but I have something familiar. Sorry it’s not short, but then, we were told word count wasn’t the goal (yay for you!)

Write on Wednesday: Make it Better…

A FuckSox Friday piece on a Wednesday.

Sometimes it’s just like that… you’re almost 12 and your Mom is doing her best to embarrass you with her dead on Billy Martin impression. She’s screaming at the ump at home plate because the opposing catcher kicked you with her shin-guards in a futile attempt to keep you from scoring the winning run for your team. Little did miss catcher girl know that your 6′ tall mother, who was managing your team, would have no problem charging the field, picking you up and sitting your blubbering ass on the plate, before screaming at the ump with her thick and getting thicker Boston accent (this is California – they think you are making sexual advances when you just want to eat your lunch) about how little miss shin splints should be banned for life for unnecessary roughness. (um I think that’s a different sport ma, but thank you for playing) At this point you have gone into full asthmatic meltdown and the fact that you can’t breathe is barely enough to cover your shame ad embarrassment. Your mom is ejected from the field, your dad has no idea how to handle any of it and you are really thankful that someone’s mom knows that you put ice on a shin to keep it from swelling and had enough sense to find your inhaler.

This was pretty much the end of my oh-so-illustrious softball career. The point where I became known as “that lady’s daughter” or “hey, isn’t your mom the one that…” and my favorite… “dude, you got totally boned at home plate and your mom is a badass!” I admit I was not the greatest athlete, but I enjoyed the game. Over time when playing here and there, I even learned to deal with my nicknames having to be printed in a mini-font and taking the entire back of my jersey… I learned to embrace being her daughter.

As I’ve grown older I learned that Billy Martin Ma wasn’t reserved for the softball field. She is a protective bitch (probably the only time you will hear or see bitch and my mom in the same sentence and it is a respect thing). In fact being protective is a trait she passed down to me, kinda like being ‘her daughter’ would follow me always. Just like looking back on the incident that day, being her daughter isn’t a bad thing. It is a major part of what has shaped me. I don’t sit on the bench and watch those I love get kicked in the shins by some stupid bitch in plastic guards. I don’t give a shit if I get kicked out for saying what I think is right even if my voice is sometimes at the wrong tone. And even though I may not be in the best place with her at that moment, I am never ashamed to be introduced as her daughter. Because sometimes it’s just like that… you get totally boned by life one way or another only to realize your mom is still a badass.

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 18 – Look through your previous WoW posts (or select a short writing piece that you would like to work on). Read through your piece carefully and let’s attempt to make it better. Look for redundant words, clichés or overused phrases. Chop and change. This is not an exercise in word count; it’s not about simply whittling it down. Make it a better piece of writing. Post your original and edited piece. THEN, throw it to the*wolves. Ask for advice from WoWers. With  help you can make your writing shine. **

Original:

A Blank page is staring at me.

 

It’s been this way for a week and it’s unnerving. There’s this unseen pressure about where to start and what to fill it with. So I go read other peoples pages… oops, not the best idea really… now there is this pressure to be funny or profound or informative… But I told Becca last week on her post I wanted to steal Familial Friday. (Probably because if I called it FuckSox Friday no one would know what it was about… or think it about something else entirely! Maybe I don’t care and FuckSox Friday it shall be.) I have some crazy shit to share, beyond my normal bi-polar express, and this may be the push I need to do it. So I will attempt to make the page not blank. As always keep your rose colored glasses handy.

 

Sometimes it’s just like that… You’re goin on 12, and your Mom is doing her best Billy Martin impression with the ump at home plate because the opposing catcher kicked you with her shin-guards in a futile attempt to keep you from scoring (what would ultimately be) the winning run for your team. Little did she know that your 6′ tall mother, who was managing your team, would have no problem charging the field, picking you up, sitting your blubbering ass on the plate before screaming at the ump with her thick and getting thicker Boston accent (this is California – they think you are making sexual advances when you just want to eat your lunch) about little miss shin splints should be banned for life for unnecessary roughness. (um I think that’s a different sport, but thank you for playing) At this point you have gone into full asthmatic mode and can’t breathe, your mom is ejected from the field, your dad has no idea how to handle any of it and you are just thankful that someone’s mom knows that you put ice on a shin to keep it from swelling and found your inhaler.

This was close to the end of my oh-so-illustrious softball career. The point where I became known as “that lady’s daughter” or “hey, isn’t your mom the one that…” and my favorite… “dude, you got totally boned at home plate and your mom is a badass!” I admit I am not the greatest athlete, but I enjoyed the game. I even learned to deal with my nicknames having to be printed in a mini-font and taking the entire back of my jersey… I learned to embrace being her daughter.

As I grew older I learned that she was protective and that was a trait she passed down and that being her daughter would follow me always. In my adult life (oh yes, 20+ years later) I learned to get used to being introduced as “her daughter … Oh I just love your mom” or “Have you met sars? no? Oh, she’s her daughter. OH!”

Write On Wednesday

 

welcome to my ride

Your hands are on your head and your mind is racing and you’re wondering ‘what the fuck, what the FUCK!’ What’s next and why am I standing here staring at my bed in tears wondering why I’m in tears. And why, WHY is a magazine from the Sunday New York Times sticking out from under my bed, ‘did I even read that??’ I need to clean up this mess and edit my closet because I have too many articles of clothing that I just don’t wear and shit dude! I’m so fucking sick of this mess. I can’t see the top of may nightstand (who names these things??) and that nasty drawer-thing by my door should just be burned in favor of a nice little table to set my keys on, because jeezis, that looks like something straight out of a dorm room and 18 years later you need to have a bit more class and a lot college chic.

Hands go back to the head… but not before wiping the tears and blaming yourself for the fact that the rest of your house is in a state of disarray, you have no children to blame, no… you are just a lazy slob, despite the fact you are not the only person in the house.

Okay, so maybe your mind isn’t doing this but mine is. well was, a few minutes ago. (did I mention this happened in the span of about 4 minutes?) The cycle continues and is repeats itself. Recognizing it, well, doesn’t stop the fucking cyclone from crashing through my bedroom er psyche, but I protected my shoes, so its okay this time. And it doesn’t just happen over the state of cleanliness in my house. Oh noooo. This is just one little trigger, one lever to shift the car down the track toward the scary loop-d-loop that I certainly didn’t sign up for (did I mention spinning gives me migraines?!?) but… We choose how to deal with the ride we’re on. So I try to remember the rose colored glasses I stashed in my seat pocket (and the meds so conveniently stashed next to them). Now that I know I’m on this ride, recognize it has traps that are trying to make me look like that crazy person who walks around talking to herself with tinfoil on her head, it’s gotten better. On occasion, I can even see the vortex of anxious coming and at least brace myself. Sometimes, I can’t, but it’s always an adventure, if not for me then it is for those close to me.

I am sparing the innocent victims of my blithering mess from having to endure public ridicule, shame or worse, pity for me to tell my story, by giving too many details or focusing on it too often. That’s the point of this really. Its my story, my life, the ride I’m on. Its my bi-polar express, two point oh (they gave me an upgrade, the original didn’t come with the anxiety package and the mania just didn’t match my shoe collection).

So lease keep track of your rose colored glassed and if you find the blinggy ones… those are mine. They fell off during my last spin in the vortex.

 

Thanks to Becca for Familial Friday which I will be calling Fucksox Friday because I have to give it my own twist… Like posting my first one on Tuesday. Because I lag.

what tube?

I guess I tube.. or youtube.

I got asked to read something I wrote  for those of you that have been reading a long time, now you will know, I am that crazy in real life. It is not just for show in print, er digi-print. If you’ve been reading long enough you will have read these for yourself and will now get my little voice stuck in your head as you read from now on…. HA!!! I plague you. :)

So here is the link if you wish to watch my theatrical (sorta)/reading/sharing in public debut, though don’t kid yourself, it was not my first time on stage. Though I have learned concretely, I don’t like being in front. I prefer the side, preferably by the bar or behind the guitar player. Yeah…. or at the bar behind the guitar player with the drummer. Perfect!!!

Observations of a Musical Inclination

Thanks No Shame Theatre.