Tag Archives: actually me

just what it says, but don’t tell anyone

the slope

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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

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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

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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?

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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.

like the corner of my mind

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Today while catching up on all the blogs I’m behind on, I popped over to Mr. Condescending’s blog where I am usually bombarded with sarcasm, mean wit and or course condescension. I did not get this today. I got an interesting tale of love and the loss of his estranged grandmother. I have been pondering this all day. I usually have some sarcastic humor or some sort of post where I am ranting about whatever. To be sure I have some of those started, but not for tonight.

My own grandmother sits in Florida (okay to be fair sits is probably pushing it, lies painfully is probably a better way to say it) awaiting the direction the next butcher,I mean doctor will take her. I would not call us estranged, but we’ve not been the closest. She and I had our moments this past summer and I’m at peace with that. As I read Mr C’s blog I felt his pain. I’m good at the empathy. But a smile came because I knew that I wouldn’t struggle with that same thing. I may be distant from a few that I love, but never so far that they are beyond my reach.  I keep my friends and family close to my heart.

I was fortunate enough to be around for my Grandfather and my other Grandmother passing along. Both gave me thing I carry to this day… the ability to play blackjack, a penchant for men that work with their hands, the best pie dough ever (that was my grandfather) and southern fried chicken to die for. And both taught me the value of life and caring for others above yourself… keep your friends close to your heart. I have always had this mantra, of sorts, and over the past 18 months I have found it to ring true… When I find myself fading, I close my eyes and realize, my friends are my energy. It is those we love that sustain us, keep us up when we are so low we feel the heat from the earths core singeing our toes. Keep them close and when you fear you are losing your grip… hold tighter. They will fill you with energy, remind you of beautiful things, and when its your turn… remember

not a resolution

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Sitting at the pub while the man read the paper, I wrote what I thought was a decent post for today. I actually put it down on real paper with a pen and everything. But as is par, on my way home I got sidetracked. When I turned on the car and headed back, it took a few to realize there were no sounds coming out. I was deep in thought about a friend of mine and the bull shit she is being forced to deal with right now. So I turned up the volume…

“Just don’t waste all your years
Believing in the fear
You’ll choke out what’s alive and make
What’s wrong be all that’s real


I can see you’re weakened at the seams
And trying to swim upstream but can’t find a way”

It didn’t actually take the whole verse for me to know the song. Hell it didn’t even take more than a couple words. My friends face was flooding tears to my eyes because the whole song was in my head. I had to re start the song.

“…


I’m sure you’ll learn to dance and drink and dream
But you might still feel lost


And I see myself in you my friend
But I would break where you would bend
I’m calling on what you defend and tonight I won’t hold back”


This song has significant meaning to me and honestly got me through some darkness. But hearing it now, all I could think of was my friend and her life. I could see her over the last few months and how the fear and stress has built upon itself layer by layer. I see her fighting in a constant swim upstream to keep what’s most important to her. I thought of how hard she works to prove to some douchenozzle what the rest of us already see, how he fights her and threatens her and uses fear as a tool to manipulate her. Fear is a powerful tool.

“Just don’t waste all your years
Believing in the fear
You’ll choke out what’s alive and make
What’s wrong be all that’s real


I can see you’re weakened at the seams
And trying to swim upstream but can’t find a way


So here we are again trying to hold back
The tides behind our eyes
Lucky ones trying to drink from both the wells we claim are dry
I guess I’ve found some freedom in
Embracing every time they pry


We’re both the same
You’re just like me”

The tears are rolling as I’m trying to sing along, and hit the back button again. I was reminded that I’ve been in this place, I’ve swam in this stream. I’ve been consumed by this fear and it’s sickening. For a moment I felt her pain and was crippled. I was in that moment and remembered my own fear. For a moment we were both the same.

“And when your skin finally sheds
You’ll find your nerves all in shreds
The price may be to keep your heart you’ll lose your head”

For me it took the physical act of shaving my head to keep my heart, to lose my fear (or some of it anyway) and lose my head or analyze less (ain’t gonna lie – not a lot less but I’m trying). I needed the reminded that I did this… I went through the work so that my skin could be shed. I made it out of the stream in one piece. I’m not sure what will happen to my friend. I am not sure of how things will turn out. She is barely at the river’s mouth and there are bears waiting in the water to catch her. What I am sure of is that she is not alone. No one should ever be alone doing battle with people that have evil inside. I know that she is loved and I have bear traps.

Oh, the song is The Odds by the band The Loved Ones…

a new year

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my fingers are slurring their words. There have been drinks and sleepless nights and friends in need and drives from one end of the state to the other. Nothing matters except the present moment. Live each present moment wisely and earnestly… That has been my motto for the last 6 or more years.

with music in the back ground is often how I get ideas to start what becomes a thoughtful or rantish post…. whatever the case may be. We all have our favorites, don’t lie, I hear the Eric Carmen blaring from the back bedroom. (turn the radio up for that sweet sound…) And you with the hairbrush, you are not ze greatest singer in ze vorld and neither is celine…

The last week U2 has been non stop on the mindpod. (You know where I’m going with this don’t you?) I am not a fan of the whole Pop-Mart era and I have friends who stopped listening after Rattle and Hum, but there was a bit of redemption with Elevation so I continue to listen. But the classics remain my favorites. Thus a song that was written almost 30 years ago for a new wife while on a vacay in the Caribbean that became an anthem for not only the reunification of Ireland (a constant theme) but for the Polish Solidarity movement as well, is coursing through my mind… my veins.

All is quiet on New Year’s Day.
A world in white gets underway.
I want to be with you, be with you night and day.
Nothing changes on New Year’s Day.
On New Year’s Day.

I prefer it to be a love song and thing that the New Year will start with just that… love. The only thing that will make the any other meaning real, is just that… love.