what's your problem?

It's time I faced the horrible truth:

I am an insanity snob.

When I go to the shrinks and have to sit in the waiting room, I really detest when people crazier than me strike up a conversation. Ok, really, I would rather everyone left me alone, but the crazy people (you know, crazier than ME) are annoying.

I don't know what it is I expect, it's a building of mental health specialists. Maybe I assume that because these people are there, they should be cured of their crazy or something? I mean, it's not like I go in there and tell the person next to me, "Hey, you know what? I'm afraid to wear shorts! You know what I did yesterday? I went around the house with a little scrapey thing and a lint brush and cleaned all the edges of my carpet where it meets the floorboard! MAN was that SATISFYING! My favorite part was being on the bathroom floor scrubbing the cracks between the wall and the baseboards with a toothbrush! Talk about a goood time! Whew!"

No. I keep these things to myself and share them with the blogoshere instead.

(Note: these are actually things I did yesterday. They are true. I am still pleased about them, actually.)

The girl I mistakenly sat down next to just went off the moment my ass hit the chair. "Did you see that? Did you SEE that?! What is HER problem? I don't know what I did to HER to make her just leave like that!"

I vaguely recalled that someone had just walked out the door and thought, "I have a good idea..." but said nothing and shrugged. I was optimistic that my noncommittal response would invoke no further conversation. Alas.

"Geez! She just...got up and LEFT! I mean, what is her problem?" I thought about what answer could possibly sedate her. Maybe she had to make a phone call? Maybe it was time for her to go? Maybe she just freaked the fuck out and ran away? Maybe the sound of your voice was like a cheese grater on her last nerve and it was leave or strangle you until you shut the fuck up?

I wished I could yell, "Hey, look over there!" and shoot her with a tranquilizer dart. Instead I said, "Who knows," in a voice that indicated both disdain for the women who left and a total lack of concern.

She went on, but her mother came and sat down, shushing her. Oh thank goodness. The mom apologized quickly to me, which was an odd moment, since the girl was obviously close to my age, but I understood. I shrugged it off and lied, "It's ok," and complimented her on her hair pin. We made small talk, the mother and I, but the girl kept butting in with what can only be deemed as socially inappropriate questions.

I said, "Oh!" as if I had forgotten something, and then, "Excuse me..." and fished my cell out of my purse, test messaging my friend, telling her that I had a story for her, but it's not like it was a good story. I just wanted to stall in the hopes my shrink would hurry up and call my name. I wondered if the girl knew I was typing things about her, and was thinking in her head, "Geez! What's HER problem?"

The funny thing is, I was thinking the same thing.

I licked it.

Last weekend we went out to eat with friends, and it was a lot of fun. I enjoyed myself immensely. What it NOT to love about sitting down somewhere that is NOT your house, NOT your kitchen, NOT filled with dishes you'll have to wash, and NOT cooking a damn thing?

Nothing, of course. It's an absolute joy.

Now, there's something you should know about me. I enjoy food the way I enjoy sex- loudly. I refuse to hold back my passion of good food, and I have managed to embarrass many a meal mate because of it. Ok, so I've managed to make a few friends who love going out to eat with me as well, probably for the show (being me) itself.

That's not the point.

The point is that I am a happy moaning eater.

My last boyfriend used to get embarrassed when we would go to Outback Steakhouse, where I would moan and giggle and curl my toes over everything they brought me. That dark bread with the whipped honey butter? Oh, Fuck Yes! The salad with that sinfully rich honey mustard dressing? Mmm, bring it on! And once I got the the steak (I miss you, steak!) it was a full blown oh-my-god-people-are-looking-at-us kind of deal.

I didn't give a fuck, and I wasn't sure why he should either. My total love of food and enjoyment of the present moment should not embarrass him, if anything it should inspire those around me to do the same. Be in the moment. Taste the scrumptious yumminess. Don't just pile it into your face holes like mindless drones! The shame! Someone went to the trouble of cooking all that for you, at least try to chew while you inhale it! Please, for the love of all that is juicy!

At any rate, this weekend was the same. Since these were one old friend and the rest were new friends, I felt the safety and comfort of the old friend outweighing the need to act politely in front of the others. What am I getting at? I fucking enjoyed my food.

I didn't wolf it down or gobble it, letting sandwich bits fly from my mouth in an effort to shovel it in. No, I ate with a slow simmering savor, politely, some moaning, but when the dessert came I had my ultimate moment of weakness...the hot fudge.

Yes. Before I would let the waiter take away the container for the pouring of the hot fudge all over the tower of chocolate suicide we were eating, I actually stuck my tongue in it and licked the remaining fudge out.

Some may consider that socially incorrect. I consider leaving hot fudge in a container headed for a stack of filthy dishes covered in other peoples germs to be a travesty. To each his own.

But for me, I licked it.



And I have no shame.

go. read. I command you.

Hey, HumanityCritic, your genius is showing, yet again.

Fuck. I love that guy.

"Well she just wanders around
uneffected by
the winter winds, yeah
and she'll pretend that
well she's somewhere else
so far and clear
about 2,000 miles from here..."

~Jack Johnson, Taylor



Inspired by an e-mail conversation with a friend of mine this morning. M, I love you.

I miss you

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I had a friend. He was a very strange friend, perhaps one of the oddest people I have ever known, but odd in a way that was filled with love. He was odd in a way that I recognized, odd in a way that was as utterly familiar as looking in the mirror at times. He was bizarre, and a lot of other people thought he was such a freak, but I didn't. To me, he was genius, an endless outpouring of the inner cacophony of life and emotion, spewing out everything in a rich flood of life force itself, creativity embodied.

To say that I have always loved him would be correct.

The last time I saw him was about ten years ago, and I have searched for him ever since. I always felt that knowing him reaffirmed my faith in life, and no matter how weird the shit in my head became, in him I could see a kindred spirit, a mentor for ways to release and recreate myself.

We'll call him...Simon, simply because Paul Simon is playing right now on my stereo. ("She said, 'Who am I to blow against the wind'?")

I met Simon in elementary school. I think I had a crush on him from the beginning. He was older, and I remember watching him play softball on the playground. He seemed like a perfect summer day. Ok, I was eight, what do you want? That's about as perfect as you can get in the mind of a dreamy eight year old's head.

The next memory I have of him is in middle school. I was trick or treating, and I kept running into him throughout the neighborhood. He kept asking me if I had potato chips. He wanted potato chips. I promised him every time I got some I would give them to him. Ah, love. (laughs)

By the time I reached high school, both Simon and I were deeply on our own individual paths to seeming insanity. By that I mean that the "normal" people found us both to be "freaks" and reminded us at any opportunity. I was also labeled as "psycho" that year. Most people didn't know my name, they just called me psycho. Ah, good times, good times. Aren't children nice to each other? Really, I didn't much care, I gave them something to bond together to hate, and I despised their carbon copy sameness, so it was mutual, albeit opposite ends of a pendulum.

He and I started hanging out at that point. He was in the middle of a phase where he decided to not wash his hair, ever. I think it lasted for a few months, I really don't remember. He would wear clothes that looked like a mix between 70's corduroy chic and random items found at a garage sale, which is probably pretty accurate. Other people would see a freak with long slimy hair, and I saw a glowing star. He just didn't give a fuck, and was going to such lengths to demonstrate it that he became my own kind of hero.

I think my favorite part about him was his singing. He would sing whenever he damn well felt like it, just start belting it out regardless. And, I have to say, no matter what anyone thought about him, they all found it charming. His lack of self consciousness about it was an oasis for my rabid insecurities. He would go to the park and set up his drums in the bathroom, or just belt out a song, and when the cops came to investigate why there was a guy serenading the public restroom so loudly you could hear it across the park, he would explain simply, "This place has GREAT acoustics."

There you go. What else do you need?

I showed up at his house one night while he was standing on his roof, high as hell and singing some song about being the chicken man. Even walking up in dark, knowing damn well the cops were going to show up in no time, I couldn't help but grin from ear to ear and secretly worship him. I had been walking alone in the dark night, and to suddenly hear Simons voice belting out though the night air was a little slice of heaven to me.

I showed up at his work one night while he was washing dishes. The back door was open and I could hear him clear as a bell, singing,

"Jeremiah was a bullfrog
Was a good friend of mine
I never understood a single word he said
But I helped him a-drink his wine
And he always had some mighty fine wine
Singin'...

Joy to the world
All the boys and girls now
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me!"

Shit, I could hear him, the whole damn restaurant must have been able to hear him. It echoed out into the parking lot and bounced off the buildings nearby it was so loud. How could I not love him? How could anyone not? I never hear that song without thinking of him.

When I worked at a health food store he used to frequently come in right at closing time and serenade the whole store with Frank Sinatra, accapello. You see, we were supposed to use the intercom microphones to announce that the store was closing in 15 minutes, 10 minutes, 5 minutes. Then Simon would stroll in, grab the mike and start belting out Frank Sinatra, one hand on that microphone, the other hand up in the air, just feeling it. He would sing the whole song, all the way through, and even our managers couldn't bring themselves to stop him. They would just stand there, transfixed with a dopey grin, the same look on our faces, and on the faces of the straggling customers left in the store. The customers who hadn't heard him before where easy to pick out- they were the ones with the wide eyes, the mouths opened into a silent "O", looking at him, but they would eventually all start smiling, too. He was irressitable.

I cried for a long time on the day Frank Sinatra died, knowing how profoundly it must be affecting Simon, no matter where he was.

Let me not fool you into thinking Simon was all daisies and sunbeams. He was not. A lot of his expressions were dark, and easily misconstrued. There was a lot of anguish that came out just as powerfully as the joy did, which is something to behold, and a lot of people did not care to behold it.

One night in particular comes to mind, where Simon and I and a few other friends had taken some acid and were wandering around in the cold Michigan night. We decided to check out some houses that were being built nearby, an easy and private shelter from the wind. At some point the guys realized they didn't bring a bowl to smoke pot, so they walked back to their house. That left me and Simon alone in the house.

Simon scrambled up into the rafters and started crawling around. I couldn't see him up there, because it was night and dark. There was some light coming in the open window-holes from the street lights, but it was just enough to see your way around the boards. This was a mere skeleton of a house still. I couldn't get up into the rafters because of my clothes (probably 2 pairs of pants and a few long hippy skirts on top of that. If you're going to dose outside in the snow, your stupid ass better be warm enough) so I stayed on the floor and just listened to Simon scuffling around over my head. He said nothing. I said nothing, both tripping. With Simon, I know I didn't have to say words just for the sake of talking, I know he understood. Likewise, when he started howling up in the dark rafters of the house, I understood. He was expressing himself, and I had no problem with that.

Alas, when he started shrieking and changing the pitch of it, my LSD soaked brain started coming up with images of people dying in concentration camps, being tortured and gassed to death. (This here is what we call a "bad trip", kiddies.) It seemed like it went on forever, him screaming and me frozen in one spot, terrified. Just at the point I thought I might leap backwards down the stairway just to escape the sound of it, our friends walked back in. One of them, "Geez, Simon, shut up! We could hear you all the way over there!" (pointing at the friends house)

And just like that, the moment was over and everything was ok. Later that night we were swinging on a swingset (again, warm clothes when it's 20 degrees comes in real handy for such situations) and I told Simon about what happened. He was surprised. And that was all. We continued swinging, me enjoying the feeling of the mighty swish of all those long skirts I had on, the bitter bite of the wind pushing into my lungs as I swung forward, the bittersweet freedom of sneaking out at night and being able to experience things outside of my parent's understanding.

Simon was in a group of guys that were all older than me and I loved hanging out with them, but really it was him. With him I felt safe, despite that bad trip experience. A lot of my freshman year in high school I spent with them all, hanging out in the park and getting high as hell. I was going through a lot of inner turmoil then and didn't want to talk. That was my way of dealing with my pain- silence. Honestly, I was just too busy trying to think my way out of my own pain to really care to bother communicating with other humans. One of Simons friends used to give me shit about it all the time, "Why do you hang out with us? You never say anything. Why don't you talk to us?" I looked him in the eye and said, "I have nothing to say," and went back to carving the piece of wood I was working on. Simon got it, why didn't the rest of them?

With Simon I knew that he would understand if I wanted to communicate by arranging rocks on a table, or climbing to the tops of trees and letting them whip me back and forth. If everyone was doing one thing and I walked away to sit and arrange twigs in a pattern, that was cool. The others might ask, "What the hell are you doing?" or "Are you ok?" but Simon would usually just walk up quietly and sit down and join me. Or respect my space and start his own bizarre creation nearby. When it was time to leave, Simon understood somehow, and would just touch my shoulder and nudge his head towards the car.

It makes me cry now, looking back and seeing why I adored him so, but didn't understand at the time- he seemed to accept me as is, no explanations needed. We were two damaged beings full of anguish and joy, and he just let me find my way, and I let him find his. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding between us.

One night in particular is a particularly sweet memory. He called me and asked if I wanted to go for a drive. I had had a rough day (most of them were) and thought it sounded it great. We drove around, barely talking, and then he parked in the parking lot of our elementary school. We sat there in the car, watching the snow fall down, and he laid my head in his lap, then slipped a tape in. It was beautiful music I had never heard before, and one of the songs I adored more than the others. Strangely, it was on the tape a few times, as if he had anticipated it.

He petted my hair and that was all. He sat there, petting my head, all we didn't speak for the whole album. When it was over I lifted up my head and asked him, "Who is that? I love it." He popped out the tape and said, "It's Enya. I knew you would like it. I made this copy for you."

I still have it.

Sentimental me, I still have that and the locks of hair he gave me (why I don't remember) and the letter he sent me from California. The letter my mom opened because he had covered the back of it with random pieces of tape and wrote all over it, "No parents!" "No peeking!" and other stuff. It makes me laugh, and it cracked me up that it irritated my mom enough to open it and then give it to me anyway, realizing it was a poetic letter with nothing dangerous in it.

One of the last times I saw Simon was when I went back to visit my old apartment. A bunch of the people still living there had decided to trash it and threw a party. When I got there I saw a bunch of teenagers tripping in the living room, and someone had a strobe light and a video camera, making a movie of Simon. Simon had gotten a giant stuffed animal panda bear out someone's garbage, and then made a giant bucket of beet juice with the juicer. So there is Simon, singing something, slowly, theatrically, while sitting in the landing of the stairway. In one hand he's got the bucket of beet juice and the other hand has a butchers knife (technically it was a chefs knife, whatever). He sang, then slowly stabbed the giant panda, splashing the blood-like beet juice all over. The panda was splattered, so was Simon, the walls, the carpet, everything. All the time, the only light in the place is this slow strobe, and Simon slowly singing some song. Fuck, it makes me laugh to think of it.

But when I looked around the room, I saw the looks on the faces of the younger kids (probably 16-19) who maybe were tripping for the first time, and had likely never met Simon before. Fucking-A, I can't even imagine what they thought of the scene, but I'm sure they were all too horrified to make a run for the door. So, I made as if I was walking upstairs, purposefully putting myself into extremely close proximity to Simon as I stepped over him and his gory Panda song performance art (it's so hard to type and laugh). As I got onto the step above him, I leaned down and kissed him slowly, sweetly, softly on the head, and ruffled his hair, just to let those kids know that it was ok. He looked up at me and smiled. I stayed at the top of the stairs until he was done, so as to not interrupt his movie again, and just sat there grinning down at him, my beautiful friend, my strange and wonderful and brave friend, who expresses his feelings in ways that most people could never accept.

God I miss him.



O love and only love can.

It's official:

I have one of the luckiest people in the world as one of my friends.


I got this picture yesterday, via e-mail. I think I am insanely jealous. Yes. Yes, I am.

so true, so true

there's not much of winter left, so get out there and enjoy it

What we think, we become.
--Buddha

who am I?

It's your turn to have a say.

ice cream hallucinations

Coming back from the gym today I heard the squeak of tires and turned to see what looked like an ice cream truck. Despite the fact that it is February, there was no annoying jingle playing, I had no money, and there were no ice cream bars painted on the side, I had this sudden vision of me running for the truck. My mind flooded with desperate thoughts, about what I could trade for some ice cream, my coat, my phone, maybe I could flash the guy for some ice cream?

That is when I realized that I had worked out far too long and was really hungry.

jaded

I am sentimental. Oh yes. Oddly, my sentimentality is not limited to joyous happy things, no. I also save things that piss me off, to remind me of how people have hurt me. Why? Sometime I forget. I become forgiving, when I should not be. Sometimes, I keep things to remind me of how much people suck.

This is just one such thing: the most worthless Christmas present I have ever recieved.




It's a chip or a token from AA (Alcoholics Anonymous). It's awarded to members of AA when they've managed to complete 30 days of sobriety. Maybe it's 60 days. In my state of bitterness, I can't say I care.

My sons father gave this to me, with a big bunch of tears and hoopla, as a Christmas present when my son was maybe four. He wanted to come over, spend Christmas morning with his son. He bought him a pile of retardly expensive gifts and wanted to watch as our (MY) son opened them, expecting to be showered with love.

You see, he had just quit drinking. He was very proud of himself. And while supportive, I knew damn well it wasn't going to last. The gifts, well, whoopdeedoo. A hundred dollar robot dog is fucking great and all, but you know what would be really swell? Child support. That hundred bucks could have bought a hell of a lot of groceries, you jackass. It was difficult to smile and look at his sober but still stupid face, expectantly waiting for kudos to flow forth from me.

Finally, he gets to my "present". He hands me what looks like a worn out poker chip, and is all choked up and tells me it's his token he earned for staying sober. I hug him, say thanks, and manage to not vomit on his face.

Finally he leaves, after feeling like his fatherly duties were sufficently fufilled.

We didn't hear from him for three months after that. By that time, he was living in a house with a meth lab in the basement, strung out on crystal meth.

I keep the token to remind me of his sincerity, and how worthless it truly is.

Bad Jobs: how to assist a nut in cracking

I once worked as a personal assistant for some wealthy guy. He was somewhat insane.

I should have known from the source that hooked me up with the job that the guy would be a bit off in the head, but I was out of work and wasn't feeling too choosy.

When I called him for a job interview, we agreed to meet at Denny's. Ok, whatever. He arrived late, and basically asked me nothing at all but whether or not I would be ok with traveling to Russia from time to time. He said he had a lot of business ventures over there, and that he needed to go to Peru soon, was I up for it?

Is this guy for real?

I asked him what I would be doing, and he said basically just being his own personal organizer, since he had so many things going on at once he just simply couldn't run all the errands and make all the calls, etc. He needed someone by his side to do the piddly grunt work.

The tasks ran from forging his checks for him so he could fill shit out faster to raking his lawn. I helped try to make sense out of an auto shop that he owned. I cleaned out some house he had bought at some gorgeous property worth a small fortune. He kept me running back and forth and busy enough, but I soon figured out that the main component of the job was trying to keep him from having an inevitable nervous breakdown.

You know, I can't even remember his name now, he was so forgettable. We'll call him Bob. I'm not sure I could nail down what Bob's biggest problem was, if it was his drinking or delusions of brilliance, or perhaps his wrongful assumption that money could somehow make hot young women fall at his feet. From his tales, I have to assume that it usually did, but it didn't work with me, and it annoyed him.

That was when the job turned sour. At first he would make small comments, small enough that I could politely blow him off as if I simply didn't catch that he was trying to hit on me. Then came the first trip out of town, to Nashville.

I don't know what the fuck kind of shady business dealings Bob had going on, but they were shady indeed. We met some guy at his house, and after talking for two hours, I STILL didn't know what the fuck we were all talking about. I think the gist of it was packaging travel deals to Russia as "Tantric Events" but it seemed to be a glorified Russia bride catalogue. The part I caught clearly was that men were promised a few weeks of endless spiritual sex with gorgeous intelligent Russian women. It's not prostitution because it's tantra, right?

Ah. Ok.

The guy whose house we went to was stuck in the 70's, from his mirrored walls to the shag rug. He, like Bob, was rich and in his 50's to 60's. It was just gruesome to see. I expected him to flip a switch and a whole wall would spin around, revealing a DJ and a disco ball dropping from the ceiling, with pub tables covered in lines of coke and scantily clad disco queens grooving to ABBA hovering around them, running to jump onto the laps of these two poor old farts stuck in the past. It was like I could see their fantasies visible in the air, like wisps of smoke from some not forgotten glory days.

They kept offering me Scotch. I repeatedly declined, asking for a Diet Coke instead. The thought of being remotely involved in their wispy pipe dreams was making me nauseous and well aware of the fact that I was a few hundred miles from home with no cell phone, no cash to speak of, and in the home and presence of two potential molesters.

I believe it was about that time that the thought, "This was a bad plan..." started clawing at the edges of my consciousness, like a miniature rabid weasel casually chewing on my brain stem from time to time.

Bob and Disco Stu finished up whatever they had to talk about and Bob and I left. Bob seemed pleased and said that I handled the situation brilliantly. I didn't have the slightest fucking clue what that meant, so I just nodded sagely. He suggested we take in the famous nightlife of Nashville, so we did. He was paying, he always paid. The man loved to throw money around, and then lament it later.

Dumb ass alcoholics.....*cough*.....anyway....

We went to a few clubs. One had this young guy that sounded like Elvis, and if I hadn't had a boyfriend I would have loved to have taken him home and hear him purr in my ear for a night or twelve. Bob called the guy over to the table so he could talk "business" and bought the guy a few drinks inbetween sets. Bob told him that he thought he could get him signed, and the guy was just about wetting his pants. Even I felt infinitely cool that I could be part of action such as this, the music scene, the magic, oh-la-la!

Did Bob have connections? I don't fucking know. I doubt it. I do know the kid called for weeks afterwards and I finally told him that Bob was a drunk and I didn't know what the hell his deal was, but good luck. I mean, the guy was so damn hopeful, it was getting to be heartbreaking to answer his calls.

But that was later. The guy finally went back onstage and I got to enjoy his crooning some more. Yum! Bob was busy getting trashed in that sneaky way that only long time alcoholics can; they seem to be holding their liquor like a champ, and then suddenly they've blacked out.

I know this because dear Bob had no memory of the night once we left the Dusty Disco, and I had this tale to relate to him in the morning, when he woke up and asked me why I looked as if I might kill him:

We left the bar. Bob told me to drive, that's a no brainer. I drove us back to the condo that Bob had in Nashville "for his business trips". It was broken into. Funny thing, that. He said every time he left town he would come back and the damn place would be broken into again. The door was hanging off the hinge. There was little inside. Karma can be such a bitch, you know?

We pull up in front and Bob says he wants to sit in the car and just listen to music. His car (whatever it was, it kicked ass) had a great stereo, and since his house no longer had one (snicker), he just wanted to sit in the car. I shrugged, whatever. It was summer, warm, and I still smoked back then, so I was just sitting there jamming out to some tunes and listening to Bob drunkenly ramble while I enjoyed one cigarette after another, knowing that as long as we're outside, I'm getting paid by the hour. Oh yah. Sit and ramble on, my drunk rich friend. Ramble on.

At some point, his conversation turned rabid. He was talking about tales of his own life and this and that, and suddenly he started berating me for having left my sons father, telling me what a shitty mother I was for breaking up a family.

If you don't know that story, you can read it here and here. And probably another hundred places, since I doubt I'll be done writing about him in this lifetime.

Here was this drunken fucknut, telling me what a piece of crap I was for having left the worst thing that ever happened to me and my son. I wasn't angry. I was so far beyond angry I don't even know if a word exists to express my indignation and the purity of my rage.

I ripped him a new one the likes of which he has had neither before nor since, although he doesn't remember a bit of it. Fucking asshole. Once I was finished telling him precisely why his opinion was worth less than the dog crap stuck into the traction of his shoes, my general armchair psychologist opinion about his own woefully inadequate upbringing, the lack of true connections in his life that was caused by his own ignorant actions, he burst into tears.

Then he tried to kiss me. I smacked him.

I told him to go into the house, NOW. I spoke to him as if he were a dog. I told him to go lay down and not to get back up until the sun came up. He tried to explain, he tried to continue talking, but I just kept cutting him off with barked orders, "BED! NOW! GO!"

He went.

I looked around his rampaged apartment and found a solid brass candlestick holder. I curled up in a dark corner and slept on the floor with it, waiting to bash his fucking skull in if he came out of that room again.

He didn't.

We left the next day, after he got some dude to come over and fix his door, again. Whatever. I spent the drive back explaining to him what an asshole he is, but apparently never mentioned the kiss part. I'm not sure why I didn't. Maybe I just wanted to get back HOME first. Anyway, I mentioned it a few days later while we were doing some other stupid real estate job there in town. He just stared at me, shocked.

"I did what?!?!"

"You tried to kiss me," I explained to his stupid ass. "What happened?" I stared at him. "I smacked you, sent you to bed, and threatened your life in you came out before dawn." He laughed and said, "Oh yah?" I told him about the brass candlestick holder. He stopped smiling.

Strangely enough, I was "let go" within a few days. Ah, yes. It was four days before Christmas, and good old Bob left town without paying any of his employees. The entire auto shop that he owned had been calling me, furious, waiting for their checks so they could go buy their kids Christmas presents. I told them over and over that I had been trying to find him, but he disappeared.

Finally, he answered one of his cell phones with an exasperated yell of, "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" I asked him where the hell he was, and he told me he was busy having a nervous breakdown with his family in Pennsylvania. I told him that's dandy and all, but he forgot to pay everyone.

"SO WHAT?!" he screamed. "So, it's Christmas? The rest of us aren't rich? We need to get paid." I thought this made perfect sense, but he seemed to think I was requesting he donate his liver on the spot or something. Finally I got him to agree to call the accountant and I could go give everyone their checks, "but go ahead and tell them to look for new jobs. I'm selling the auto shop."

I waited, and then said, "When?" No answer. "When are you selling it? When would you like me to tell them?"

He just yelled, "Now! Everybody is fired! You, too!"

I hung up. I got my check, got everyone else's, and got to be the bearer of his horrible news the day before Christmas Eve. The guys took it about as well as I did. We all knew he would crack eventually.

What's he doing now? I don't know. I can't say that I honestly give a fuck.

circles in Momasona

I just got back from lunch with a friend of mine that I haven't even seen in over ten years. Dinner itself was eventful, full of laughter and the making of new friends. She brought with her her sister, cousin and her cousins husband. We loved them all.

But that is not what is heavy on my mind right now. Almost as soon as we met up, my friend handed me a pile of photographs from the years back when we were close. It was my mid to late teens, right smack in the middle of The Swiss Cheese Years, as I might start referring to them. Meaning, there is little that I remember coherantly from those years. Granted, there were a lot of drugs, but there was also an undiagnosed chemical imbalance and hypoglycemia mixed up in it all.

We had dinner, all was dandy. We came home and I sat down. I pulled the pictures out of my pocket and started to examine them, as if they were some precious archeological items, peering at the pictures as closely as possible, looking for some clues, something I might recognize, something that might fill in the missing peices. There were small things that I recognized, a Buddhist bell I used to wear around my neck, my Baja scrunchie, a beautiful carved wooden box filled with amber that I used to leave on the dashboard of my car so it always smelled good.

But for the small things that I discovered, I had so many more questions arising. Whose shoes were those in the side of that shot? Who were those people that I considered friends? That was my favorite sweater...where the hell did it go? There was a picture of my old apartment, and I recognized nothing in the picture but the stairway and myself. The chair I was sitting in, nothing. It was if I was looking at a photograph of a dream someone else had about me, but it isn't. It is MY life. And I don't remember it.



It's really weird to see pictures of yourself and have no memory of being there, doing the things that you're doing. I imagine with drunks those moments happen a lot, but I was never a drinker. And only one of two of the pictures do I actually look high (my eyes were mere slits when I smiled, it was obvious). But even with the drugs, I remember plenty of times high as hell, even tripping, that I can recall with great detail.

I look at the clothes I was wearing, some of it I remember, some of might as well be those of a total stranger. Beaded bracelets that were obviously tied on my arms for months, maybe years, I have no memory of them. Then there are a few pieces of jewelery that I still have, and a pair of earrings I remember buying on a total whim when riding my bike aimlessly up Woodward Avenue and wandered into a Pier 1. I lost them long ago, but I remember the night I bought them, high as shit, cutting through peoples yards while the cops followed me. Maybe I had some more weed on me or maybe I was just paranoid, but I remember feeling tricky as hell being able to lose them that way.

And then, Woodward Avenue. Hey, Pier 1. The bright lights, all the cool stuff. It was the first time I had ever been inside one, and the earrings were overpriced, but I simply couldn't leave a store with such cool shit without owning a peice of it. They were my pride and joy. I bought them, put them in my ears right then, unlocked my bike and rode back home.

Those earrings are in a picture.

The me that I thought was ugly is in those pictures, and she is beautiful. Beautiful in that scruffy hippy I don't brush my hair kind of way, but beautiful nonetheless. A girl who rode her bike even though she owned a car, just because she loved the time alone, the closer touch to humanity. The girl who had to stop her bike on the way to work one morning when an ambulance went by, lights flashing and sirens blaring, because the emotion coming from it was overwhelming. The girl who was trying so hard to unravel the knot of emotions that she was.

That girl I still am.



Off of Chris Rosser's album, Archaeology.

IN EVERYTHING (MOMOSONA)

(Gtr: CGCGCD capo 2nd)

I feel the rhythm of the waters

I feel the sighings of the land

I feel the music of the forests

In everything, in everything

I feel the courage of my father

I feel the mercy of my mother

I feel the blood that runs through me

In everything, in everything

In everything, in everything

Moma-, momasona...

I feel the wisdom of the ancients

I feel the kindness of the old ones

I feel the little children praying

I feel the promise of the ages

In everything, in everything

I feel the pain and the passion

I feel the hurt and the laughter

I feel the hoping and the longing

In everything, in everything

In everything, in everything

Moma-, momasona...

I feel the hearts of every people

I feel the faith of every man

I feel the wounds of every nation

I feel the power of my hands

I feel the power of my hands

In everything, in everything

In everything, in everything

In everything, in everything

In everything, in everything

Moma-, momasona...

("Momasona" means "everything" in the Bassa language)

smitten with turtles

These are my turtles. I go the lake and visit them everyday, and every day they crane their turtley heads up to peer at me and decipher if I am a threat. I adore them. The other day the mama turtle was swimming next tot he log with her baby turtle beneath her, him doing slow concentric circles beneath her. She would surface, look at me, then stick her head back underwater and maintain eye contact with the baby turtle for a moment. This went on for a few minutes. I don't know if turtles can talk in some way, but it's obvious they communicate somehow.

Finally the other day I got a picture of junior up on the log, and I am smitten with his little back flipperfin. I adore him. I could name him but it couldn't possibly do him justice.






Come. Join me in my turtley love. Click on the pictures, they came out great. Look at his little back flipper foot. It's so damn cute.
~sigh~

who the hell is Introspectre?

Ah yes. I saw this and couldn't resist. While your darling Jill is laying around the house, moaning, sleeping, coughing, probably drooling on pillows and all around being puny, perhaps you would like to tell me things about myself that I don't know.

What say yea?

ah pansies, how I love thee

things that make me happy

itsmagic.wmv

Valentines Day

Valentines blogs of years past:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thursday, February 14, 2003
Happy Blither Blather!!!! For those of you (about to rock, we salute you) who really REALLY enjoy Valentines Day, Happy Valentines Day. For the rest of ya (including myself) Happy Strange Flashbacks to feeling like you're back in puberty again! Whooohooo!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Saturday, February 14, 2004
This day is hell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monday, February 14, 2005
the Valentines Day blog
I love daygloradio. Right now they're playing a Cure cover of the song, "Young Americans" and shitonastick is it incredibly good! MAN!

I LOVE this station!

Anyway....
where was I? Oh yes, it's Valentines Day.
So much I wanted to do today. I may still get it all done. Currently I am baking cookies, then lasagna. I'm working on my website. And I'm working on my ability to rise above and let go.

After my letting go post a few days ago I decided to go through my computer and delete all the pictures of my Ex. There's tons of them in here. Even one of him and his skank last year. Why do I do this to myself? I need to, sometimes. Sometimes I am too easy on those who have done me wrong, and so I save the momentos of pain and humiliation so I do not forget.

And I have dreaded Valentines Day, afraid my anger and pain would overshadow a silly cute holiday.
So, I decided that simply wasn't going to happen. Instead of spending the day thinking about the past and the pain of the past, I would spend the day letting go.
And so away the pictures go. The letters, too.
If I get the chance, I'm getting rid of the majority of the paper pics, too. I think perhaps I should save a couple so my son can have them for the sake of his opwn personal history. I haven't decided yet.

At any rate I feel f'in fantastic. And then this song came on and I see it as a beautiful sign.

Yay for me.

And Happy Valentines Day to us all. Despite the pain. Despite all the bullshit.
Turn on "Dancing with Myself" full blast and do a crazy little dance wherever you are.

Today is a whole new day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today...
Well, today is another whole new day. Finding out you were cheated on, on Valentines Day, has got to rank up there in Ways To Make Damn Sure You Hate A Fucking Holiday. Kind of like my love for Christmas.

This Valentines Day I am feeling moody and not terribly optimistic. Mr. Wonderful and I discussed what it is I want/need/expect/require to be happy on this bizzare-o holiday. As he so astutely pointed out, "It's really about what the girl wants. And girls say they don't want stuff but then they do and they get mad, and it's all stressful..."

Shit, it goes both ways. Sure, what girl doesn't love a little romance and cuteness? But there is a fine line between wanting to be pleasantly surprised and feeling like a demanding diva bitch. I mean, he's asking me what I want. What do I want? I want to feel cherished, in some manner. It does not require heaps of flowers or piles of chocolates or lengthy poetry or serenades.

It requires a gesture.

I know, I hear the men groaning, "What the fuck does THAT mean, though?" Well, as far as what your mates want, I couldn't answer that. I can only answer what it means to me. I would love a small show that he listened to what I said once, at any point, and it meant enough for him to remember. What is my favorite flower? Food? Surprise me with something that tells me you know who I am. I don't need a fucking carriage ride in the park and champagne. I don't require diamonds (although I am damn fond of them, no doubt).

I used to try to drop hints for my last boyfriend, but as you have just read, the cheating butthole wasn't paying much attention, or else he might have known that sticking his cock in some girl at work might bother me a bit. Not the Valentines present I wanted.

I really wanted the Shakespeare Magnetic Poetry Kit, seeing as how I have a serious addiction to those zany little magnets (I'll take a picture of our fridge sometime, it's retarded) and I love Shakespeare. And it would be total geek chic cuteness, right?

Whatever. He got me nothing. My son gave me a rock in the shape of a heart and told me it was for me for Valentines Day "since (Ex) didn't get you anything." Talk about a heartbreak. I still have that rock. It sits on top of my stove.

The Shakespeare Magnetic Poetry I bought for myself.

I made it a ritual to go the the gourmet chocolate place in town every Valentine's monring and blow a heap of money on a whole bag of gourmet chocolate and just eat that all day, one four dollar truffle and five dollar "turtle" after another. By the time Mr. Romance(less) came home, I was so intoxicated with chocolate I couldn't have given a crap what he had to say or do. It didn't matter, since he said and did nothing. Problem solved, in a fucked up way.

Now I'm with a wonderful man, who would do whatever I asked if I asked. The thing is...I'm afraid. I have a serious issue with people not giving me as much love as I think I deserve, mostly involving my birthday, but Valentines just plays into that.

What if I ask him for something, and he doesn't do it? Then what? Do I pout? Blow it off? Silently resent it and never ask for another thing again? The fact is, this is what I do. The last boyfriend that ever did anything truly sweet for me on Valentines Day was when I was eighteen.

I know he reads my blog sometimes, so I'll tell you what it was, simply so that he knows how much it meant to me. And it was simple.

He faxed me at work, announcing that the Valentines countdown had begun. I don't remember how many days it was until the big day, but he had a small surprise for me every day, and it was just as sweet as could be. I still have the ring he gave me that week. Yep. I'm a sentimental shmuck.

Valentines Day itself, he took me to a piano recital. Something went wrong, I don't remember what. Maybe we were lost or late or something, but I didn't even care. The fact that he knew how much I love piano music (I still do) just blew me away. He went and found a concert, and bought tickets, and took me. It kinda chokes me up still, to tell you the truth.

Since then, I never had a boyfriend do anything really special. I don't know if anyone ever did anything special before that, either. He may have been the only one, or maybe it was just so thoughtful that it's stuck in my memory all these years.

Do I have ideas of what would make me feel all squeaky inside on this Valentines Day? Well, sure. I have great ideas. But that's the problem- they're MY ideas. I want to be surprised and feel special, not dictate and then inspect the finished product of his toils.

Romance? No.

Am I thinking that perhaps I should just do something special for HIM and not get so caught up in my own sense of self pity? Why, yes, actually, I am. What would make him feel all squeaky? The funny thing is, it's very simple.

CHOCOLATE.

The man loves chocolate. And chocolate I got. But my darling husband is hypoglycemic and isn't supposed to be consuming piles of sugar. He turns into a horrible beastie when his blood sugar goes wack-o. Despite this, I am armed to the gills with chocolate, should he want it. Chocolate-carmel kisses, milk chocolate, chocolate pie, chocolate covered almonds. Yes. He doesn't know this. If I let him, he would eat this all for dinner and be happy as hell. Well, until the next morning when gluttonous guilt would kick in and then I would be held responsible for his guilt.

The question is, do I want to put myself in that position? For his happiness? Anything. Yes.

Where is this going? I don't fucking know. Valentines is confusing, dammit. That's my point. I'm still trying to figure out how to work this holiday so that it's a happy occassion unmarred by resentment.

Good luck to us all. I'll keep you posted.

more poetry from high school

click on it to see it big enough to read...

even kindness has a pack mentality

Have you ever had a friend whose heart was so pure it was nearly painful just to know them? The kind of person who trusts you because you say you won't hurt them, the person that would give a total stranger the shirt off their back, the person who makes you feel as if you are immediately enveloped in a loving embrace, flaws and all, even upon first meeting them?

If so, you are lucky.


I am that lucky.

I have a few friends like that, actually. They are a small collection, but one I value more than anything I own. Despite my tendency to isolate myself in my hermit-ish ways, I make great efforts to tend these precious gardens and tell these people that I value and love them. I know it will never be enough, but that sometimes that is just the way of things. We get busy with life and heartache and dramas and whatever, and don't call as often as we should.


Keeping in touch is not the hardest part, however. There is a great burden to be carried when having friends like that. Friends who are pure of heart are a tremendous responsibility, to not take advantage of their kindness.

It takes a very strong person indeed to not use someone else's kindness as a weakness for promoting their own agenda.

Kind people are easy to manipulate. They are easy to control. Many of them can be maneuvered as easily as puppets by the selfish hands of others. A little tug on a heartstring here, a convincing enough lie, "I'm just watching out for you/It's because I love you/I know what's best for you" etc, and these people are like putty.

Putty is easy to mold, easy to shape, and terribly easy to deform.


I have watched many a pure hearted friend go through it. It takes so much for people like that to grow angry, grow strong, grow a backbone. You can nearly witness the crackling DNA shift of someone changing from a putty doormat to a person with a spine.

I have done it myself. I am, admittedly, still a work in process. And perhaps because of this, it is painful to see a close friend go through it, too. Sometimes it's a bit like walking through fire- do you come out intact and stronger, or burnt, cracked and jaded?

I came out jaded. It's been a long struggle to regain my softness, my ability to express joy, to live life without fear, to assert myself and know the difference between other people's needs and wants.

Most important of all to me, right now, is the effect it has upon me to see someone kind being taken advantage of by a self serving reptile. It's like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over again.

It makes me angry, and my anger leads to action. Puppy kickers of the world, beware.

How to not lose your head at the airport:

Don't bring along a spare.

Things to file under, "That May Have Been A Bad Plan, In Retrospect."

It certainly did not protect her from harm. Nosireebob.

my geraniums

ugh

The vote is in: my son has ADD. Apparently there are many kinds of ADD, and my son has the Inattentive Type.

~presses lips together~

This is taking me some serious brain power to wrap my brain around. You see, I've had teachers tell me for years that he had ADD, and I thought they were retarded jackals. I've seen kids with ADD, and they act like maniacs. My son doesn't act like a maniac, he acts like a space cadet. One incredibly brilliant and witty space cadet.

I thought it was due to his traumatic childhood. I thought it was something he would grow out of. Last year he seemed to do so well in school, I really thought whatever the problem was, it was obviously solved.

Then, this year hit. It hit like a bomb, teachers notes coming home, parent teacher conferences, us hating the teacher, my son getting in trouble, driving us nuts at home, driving his teacher nuts at school, even driving himself nuts I think.

But like I said, it's not that he's spastic or loud or any of the normal things I associate with ADD. He's just twitty. He stares off into space. He'll eat his dinner and I'll have to snap my fingers or bark his name at him, or else he'll just sit there with the fork in his mouth, not chewing, staring off into space. According to his teacher, he does the same thing in school. The test will end and she'll call, "Time's up!" and he'll jump, startled, realizing he only finished half of the test.

Oiy.

So, finally, I have gone to have him tested. He could be the freakin' poster child for ADD Inattentive Type. Next week we're going back to talk medication, and that's been another emotional/mental battle for me.

For years I've been reading about how teachers want to dumb down the kids of today by making sure they're all fucking medicated. A happy room full of drugged children. Ah, the joy. Some sort of teachers utopia. And while I think that a lot of parents are resorting to medication that behaviour modification could fix, there are some genuine chemical imbalances going on. It's been a struggle for me to not buy into the whole medicated children of America conspiracy and recognize that my child honestly has a chemical imbalance.

It should come as no surprise to me. My family is riddled with chemical imbalances and alcoholics, drug abusers and dipshits. My sons father is adopted, and we know nothing of his biological family history, but we know that he is ADHD and has a lifetime history of drug and alcohol abuse.

I myself am prone to depression, anxiety, and a whole gamut of symptoms that go along with those things. It's not like my son has not come by this honestly- it would be nearly a shock if something WASN'T wrong with him.

But still, I struggle with the stigma. My child has ADD. My child will be on medication. I'm going to willingly give my child some derivative of meth, even in miniscule amounts... that's hard to deal with.

When I talked about it to my shrink, she explained it like this, "Here's a kid with a chemical imbalance. You, as the parent, are having a hard time dealing with the reality of it. So, what are you going to do, ignore it? Let him suffer? When he could be so productive and happy, would you rather let him wallow in self doubt? You know what happens to kids like that? They end up using drugs. They seek self medication."

Talk about a well earned smack in the face. Fuck. Ok, ok. I get it.

It's best to assist him with the problem while he is still young, before it causes so much anxiety that it effects his personality, before he comes to doubt himself and the genius that he does posess.

I don't know why it's so hard for me. He's excited. He can't wait to try the medication. He's been sad, and now he's optimistic that there is a solution to what seems, to him, an insurmountable problem. He can't focus. The doctors can give him "focus medicine". He's thrilled.

Dude. I don't know. Giving my child doses of meth every day just seems so horribly horribly wrong. Even if it IS good for him.

Sometimes parenting is hard. Shit, it could be worse...

Just leave me. I'll be here, in my corner, playing the worlds smallest violin to soothe myself.

By amending our mistakes, we get wisdom.
By defending our faults, we betray an unsound mind.

-The Sutra of Hui Neng

home

Just before the sun sets, the sun hits the bay and reflects onto the walls and ceiling. There's something magical about the shimmering light of water on the walls. I am smitten with it.

banana yellow

I painted my whole room the same color as that jacket that year. It drove my mom nuts. It made me happy.

announcement

I have just heard the stupidest song ever recorded in the history of this world and quite possibly at least twelve others. It was so stupid that I felt accosted just listening to it, and offended for all of humankind. The fact that a fellow being would create something so absolutely moronic is devastating to me.

And so, I immedietely came home and googled the song, so I could find out who my new mortal enemy is. It turns out that it's The Black Eyed Peas.

I used to think that girl was really hot. Now I think she's really hot and ought to be riding the short bus.

You can go watch the video if you like. Getting to stare at her butt a lot is the only thing that makes this song bearable. Alas, without her mesmerizing butt to look at, it's just about as enjoyable as trying to remove my eyeballs with a spoon.

I have a friend that is a dancer. Ok, I get it. But one should never, ever, NEVER refer to her delectable parts as "my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely lady lumps."

That's about as sexy as calling it "my potentially douchable orifice".

Fergie, I'm gonna get you for this travesty. If nothing else, I will make damn sure your helmet is super glued onto your head, so you don't hurt yourself any more.

When you already know the answers......

What is worse than getting those e-mails that ask you a pile of mundane questions? Getting them from your mother in law. I love the woman, I do. But lord, she sends me every cheesy thing that someone else sends her. When I got this latest questionnaire, I couldn't resist. I typed it out and sent it back pronto. Strangely, I haven't heard from her recently. Hmmm.

1. What is your full name? Asscheeese McMonkeyButt

2. What color pants are you wearing? my fur

3. Siblings? 30 prehensile tailed banana eaters

4. What is under your bed? trees

5. Favorite flower? anything edible

6. What did you do for your last birthday? threw poop at people

7. What do you collect? bugs off of peoples fur

8. What is your occupation? chief mango stealer

9. What are you listening to right now? toucans

10. What was your favorite vacation spot? The Great Banana Land

11. What was the last thing you ate? some bugs

12. Do you wish on stars? what is a star?

13. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? banana

14. How is the weather right now? groovy

15. Last person you spoke to on the phone? can you eat a phone?

16. How many different sizes of jeans are in your closet? none, I'm a monkey, dammit

17. How old are you today? 7

18. Favorite drink? clean water, it's hard to find in these parts

19. Favorite sport to watch? tree swinging

20. Have you ever dyed your hair? only once when I came in contact with that berry patch

21. Do you wear contacts? Oook?

22. Pets? a mouse I named Smitten. Don't tell anyone.

23. Favorite month? whenever bananas ripen

24. Favorite food? uh, hello? bananas?

25. What was the last movie you watched? ook?

26. Favorite day of the year? the one I eat till I pass out

27. What do you do to vent anger? throw poop!

28. What was your favorite toy as a child? poop

29. Fall or Spring? spring

30. Hugs or kisses? is this like eating bugs?

31. Cherry or Blueberry? banana

32. Do you want your friends to mail you back? I doubt they are as computer literate as I am. I AM a monkey you know.

33. Who is least likely to respond? the elephants. Their feet are too big for keyboards

34. Who is most likely to respond? a praying mantis

35. Living arrangements? trees, trees and more trees

36. When was the last time you cried? when that bitch monkey stole my mango

37. What is on the floor of your closet? dirt

38. Who is the friend you have had the longest? Smittens, but keep it quiet

39. What did you do last night? slept

40. Favorite smell? oh come on! BANANAS!

41. What inspires you? other monkeys screaming

42. What are you afraid of? bigger monkeys

43. Plain, cheese or spicy hamburgers? oook?

44. Favorite car? ooook.

45. Favorite dog breed? definetely not the hyenas. They suck.

46. Number of keys on your key ring? ook?

47. How many years at your current job? 4

48. Favorite day of the week? banana day

49. How many states have you lived in? state of contentment, fear, sleepiness, happiness, poop flinging anger, and hunger

50. How many cities have you visited? Definitely ooook.

There's going to be a lot of possums with tummy aches, methinks.

holy crap!

The Virgin Mary had a vagina?

Say it ain't so! And make damn sure you don't say it during Christmas Eve! Because, apparently, Jesus was not only immaculately conceived, he was also immaculately birthed.

I mean, I get it, people can be squeamish, but we're talking about birth. It is not for the faint of heart. It's not like the guy said, "Jesus dropped out of her cooter" or anything. Yes, she gave birth in the usual method, through her daintily named "birth canal".

This just irritates me. Give the woman some props for giving birth in a barn, and quit worrying about offending people with reality.

If the priest had mentioned what was done with the placenta, I could see that being a bit too much, but really, "birth canal"?

Ugh.

brilliant

nightmare of rage

Ugh. Nearly 4 am and I'd rather stare at this insanely bright screen than be asleep right now.

Nightmares.

This one was weird, as there wasn't anything particularly frightening, per say, but there was a lot of anger and confrontation, both coming from me.

Jack and I (and young'un) were in some freakishly huge house. It was the size of a hotel, with enough rooms, certainly, but the whole place was slightly ramshackle, reminescent of a summer home, a kind of camp or something. The windows didn't shut tightly, but it didn't matter, that sort of thing. Handmade quilts on the beds, trying to make it look cozier than it was.

The first half of the dream I spent alternately yelling at my son and my husband. My son was, in my opinion, acting horribly, but my husband calmly excused everything he did. I felt like a maniac, getting angrier and angrier, yelling, finally screaming.

But the situation was out of my control, and my husband didn't seem to think there was a problem, as if I was some nut that didn't warrant close attention, or even contemplation.

The details are fuzzy now, but I was trying to send my son to bed. It was late, he was acting badly, so what the hell- go to bed. But my husband kept going in his room, talking to him, and then I would see my son up and walking around, and I would get angry all over again, "What the hell are you DOING? GO TO BED!!!" My husband would make some calming explanation that was supposed to make it all better, but it further infuriated me.



Finally he went to sleep. I realized that in all of this gigantic house, we hadn't shut the windows or doors the night before. (I am paranoid, and even lock my own car door once getting in, in real life. A habit I learned in Detroit...)

I stomp around and shut things, while my husband offers to help and I ignore him, furious at being dismissed so many times. As if his attention to my feelings were too little, too late.

I close a fwe things (by no means all) and go back to the bedroom, where I start trying to make sure every curtain is covering every possible crack. It's hopeless. Hubby turns on the radio, and it's some bizarre trippy song that's supposed to be Pink Floyd (but isn't). I peek outside and decide to just crawl out of the window and dance in the front yard, in the dark, fears be damned.

It's odd, because I have no particular love for Pink Floyd. If anything, they remind me of being fourteen and wanting to commit suicide. So I think it was poignant, somehow.

So out onto the lawn I go, and I start spinning (you Deadheads know what I'm talking about). Just spinning. I have on some gorgeous flowing white outfit and as I spin in flows in the breeze. I wonder about the possible dangers in this place, and just keep spinning.

I hear my husband warn me, something, and I stop spinning, trying to walk back to the window where he is, but instead dizzily walk straight into the arms of a strange man. He is not alone, but he is smiling kindly enough.

He asks if I am (insert name here), and I say, yes, and he seems thrilled. As if he'd met a celebrity or something. He gushes, "Oh, you're just like I thought you would be!" I'm baffled. A few more people show up behind him, all smiling, but not all of them innocently. I get the impression that there is a joke I am not in on, and it's making me wary.

He asks if they can come in and party. I tell him, no, not really. He explains about how great the party would be, and I tell him, "Look, I'm sure that would be just swell and all, but here's the deal: I FINALLY got my son alseep and all I want to do now is get laid. I wouldn't enjoy a party. So, no thanks." They all laugh at my honesty, and then mention how the house is so very BIG, maybe they could just hang out in one area of it?

I debate it, and against my better judgement tell them, sure ok, but stay to the top floor. I know no matter what they do we won't be able to hear them from there.

All of a sudden, people start piling in and up the stairs. They are flooding out of the shadows, rushing to get in, and I think, "I'm an idiot. What the fuck have I done?" I follow them in and see them setting up for the party of the century, raiding the industrial sized kitchens and at that point I ran to get my husband.

I tell him what's going on, and I tell him, "I don't think I even know a single person! I'm going to confront them all, and if I don't know anyone, I'm kicking them out!" See, the guy acted as if he knew who I was, and I fell for his flattery. I was pissed off I could be so stupid.



I start running down a back hall, my husband silent behind me. I find mobs of people trying to access the lower floors, and acting all innocent when I confront them on the stairways. The first room I get to is mostly full of women, and I start yelling to get their attention. A few glance up, but mostly they ignore me.

One girl in particular just kept on talking, even after the rest of the room fell silent. My rage focused on her. "SHUT UP! JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I kept screaming, but she just prattled on, pointedly ignoring me.

Finally I got down in her face and grabbed her by the scruff of her shirt and started chewing her out. I knew my husband was right behind her, for back up if I needed it.

*I woke up*

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooookaaaaaaaaaaay.

I must say, before going to bed we had talked quite extensively about anger, my anger, my suppression of anger, and the possibilty of group therapy. I told him I was afraid of group therapy, and he offered to come with me. I told him I wasn't really sure yet, but just something I was thinking about.

I'm suppressed anger for years, afraid of it. When it comes out it was blinding and furious, so therefore, untrustable.

This dream seems so full of it, I'm sure it has something to do with that conversation, though not exactly sure. It is, after all, 4am, and I am staring at a hideously bright screen. I'll save the ponderances for the daylight.

Any of you armchair shrinks out there want to have a go at the symbolism here, have at. I could use all the help I can get.

Star Wars geekitude

Who doesn't love the Mythbusters?

Seriously- if I was single, I would date these guys. Either one. Maybe both. Whatever.

for Wombat

I thought of you as soon as I saw it. Can't think of why... hmmm.