I'm back on the Blog-Horse again, and it feels gooood....
Take that as dirtily as you'd like. Perverts.
Aw...do you remember the good old days? When I was a pervert? Siiiiiiiiiiiigh........ Maybe I'll be a dirty old man again some day, but for now I'm feeling as mild as a summer rain.
My bestest friend of all is graduating this week. Dr. J! I couldn't be prouder of her if she was my child! And she's going to be a phenomenal professor. Her mother and grandmother will be here for the graduation ceremony, so that should be a hoot. I'll be sure to share any good stories.
Meanwhile, I'm facing the onslaught of summer vacation without much courage. It's going to be long and hot and... hard. To keep the house clean, that is! ha. Gotcha. But at least we get to go to Maine, and at least we have a private pool 2 blocks away. And. At least we can go camping up high in the cool mountains, or burrow down in our cool basement with the Wii and the projector... Ok, I'm beginning to relax. I think if we pack away 98% of the kids' toys before then it will help.
No word from the paper, but it is finals week. (did I mention they're getting a new editor for my section, so we all had to reapply?) I imagine I’ll hear something at the end of this week or early next. Either that or he won’t ever call and will lose the Best Writer EVER. Ha. Just kidding...there are really some talented kids there. I did make a mistake, though... I didn’t include a cover letter, which the application said was "optional". I was in a hurry to get it in way before the deadline, and with so much crazy shit going on, I sort of spaced that part. Not to mention I was sort of thinking of the application process as a formality. Bah. But then when I was in the office filling out the application, attaching my writing samples, and the application said "COVER PAGE OPTIONAL In which you can tell us why you are qualified and Stuff!!" BAH. I am considering just sending him an informal email with an apology for not including the cover letter and a few brief paragraphs on how much I loved the job and why I’m looking forward to working with him, etc, as well as letting him know that I have a review of Les Mis ready for the first issue if he wants it. Such a suck up I am. (but, as you may have heard, at least I am good at it!)
So tomorrow my car's registration will be expired. Oops. I sort of had it on my list for last week, but I didn't get to it. So tomorrow morning the windshield people are coming to my house to replace the glass. Did I tell you about that? There was a cold spell back in January and during that time I was at a friend's house very late. When I got in my car I cranked the heat and that was a mistake... a tiny rock chip spread from an invisible nick to an 18-inch crack! A few nights later it grew even more, under the same conditions. (no, I don't learn, but thanks for asking!) It is low on the window, but it goes almost all the way across. AND. I have a tricky special windshield, with rain sensors, so I am super duper extra uber glad I have windshield insurance. I am slightly less exuberant about the cluster fuck of phone calls it took me to MAKE the damn claim, but it was worth it. I do love my car, so! I finally stopped having visions of making out with it every time I proclaim my love for it, but my heart still flutters every time I slide into the seat. I'm easy to please, what can I say? It's true, just ask my husband. HA!!!
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Thursday night I went to the Bukowski CD release party/poetry reading, as I mentioned in my last post. What I somehow failed to mention was the jazz trio backing up the readers-- fuck ing awe some. And then the one dude-- the one playing the not-electric, old-school, 6-foot tall Bass-- he recited a poem he had written. He wrote it while watching whales off the coast of northern california. It was replete with assonance and aliteration and it was perfectly punctuated by his fingers on the strings of the instrument. Yeee-aw.
So anyway. Friday was a good day... we drove down to the college from which Cameron's brother would have graduated, had he lived a few more fucking months. That may have been the most depressing thing I've experienced this year. It was cool, too, though; they presented his diploma to his 5 year old daughter. And when the other brother pointed the camcorder at me and told me to say something, I didn't say what I was thinking. I didn't say that he should be here, that we should be watching his tall ass self swagger down the aisle. That we should have had to fight with him over allowing his mother to attend, and about where to eat together afterward.
AHEM. So anyway. Friday night I had one ticket to the opening of the first regional production of Lay-Miz (trying to throw off search engines). And at the last minute mr. husband decided to come with me and see if there were any tickets to buy. We were in luck and the show was in credible. Hubby said it was better than any movie he's ever seen. It was phenomenal. Loved it.
Saturday brought hiking and lunch with my best friend, and an evening with a couple of couples-- fabulous Italian and then to the best sports bar to watch our dear Jazz wipe the floor with the Rockets. Twas a golden day.
Today? Sex--finally! I've been out of commission for one reason or another for over a week, and right before that we spent 2 nights sharing a hotel room with our kids. SOOOOOOOOOOOO.... it was a blissful morning in our world. And then we spent the day relaxing and playing with the kids.
And now I feel like I'm bragging. Sorry!!!! I do, truly, hope you guys all had equally if not similarly lovely weekends.
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I wonder Sometimes If I am the bastard child of Charles Bukowski. My mom does not deserve the images conjured by that statement. She was not in LA in 1974, But she grew up there. Maybe I was swapped at the hospital With some baby that belonged to a woman he fucked-- a woman who emigrated to Maine to give birth? That sure would explain a few things. But not the precise way in which my inner workings, behavioral patterns, and physical health mirror my father’s.
Today I give up. Today I imagine never having to grow old.
Last night, in the Rare Books store, The readings were so...mmmm... well-done. Even the quiet, older woman who partied with Buk when he was here-- Sometime in the 60s or 70s, I think. Especially the large, bushy man with the dramatic flare. Surprisingly the woman in sequins. More surprisingly the woman in jeans, who read the Cunt-infused poem as though she had been dared. (I would have read it with relish. And mustard.) And my creative writing professor from last year, Who smiled a Real smile when I told him I had published an essay I wrote for him.
There may be no way for me to be creative living the life that has suddenly been unrolled before me like a red carpet, or a yellow brick road-- but much less poetic than either. I was tossed out of a helicopter onto this dusty, rocky, cliff-edged, wind-whipped trail. I was thrown onto it in the middle of the night after being handcuffed and blindfolded (gagged for sure) and pushed and all manner of man handled-- and now I'm here. Not sure which way to go, but I will walk it. And I will rock it. I guess I will manage to find creativity in my mind even if I'm too empty to even think, "huh?" without hearing an echo.
If Bukowski could do it, then so can I. Or something.
I have been living a dream these last few months, and now I'm awake. Or maybe just maybe This is the dream.
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Last night I dreamed of a foggy wharf, in a distant harbor. There was sadness in every drop of damp air. I could hear the waves lapping against the pilings, and the muffled clanging of bell bouys. But then I was on my street (with no name, high on this desert plain...) (ok, MY street has a name, but most of the streets here do not.) ahem. I was on my street and I could sense You there, wandering through my neighborhood, but never intercepting me; I don't think you even knew you were Here. You were looking for something unimportant-- just walking innocently, unaware, mere breaths away from me. And the Me in the dream was unaware of You; just the silent sleeper Me saw the proximity and, watching the scene unfold, stopped breathing long enough to wake.
Had a crackin' work out at the gym, though. I have been sleep-exercising, I think. Sort of yawning through my workouts, not pushing myself at ALL. So today I pushed a bit. Not tooooo hard... wouldn't want to pull a muscle or anything. Heh. But I feel invigorated, so that counts for something.
I am already ready (already) to take my kids back to the southeast part of this red rockin' state. That red dirt...oh, mama, that red dirt makes me want to run naked and sing for the rain to pour down-- how I would look, splattered in red mud! How I would FEEL with my toes in the warm earth, cooling with each drop of warm rain. For rain is never as warm as earth, even warm rain. The smell of rain in that desert--! Oh! I am swooning, truly. And...unable to spell. swonn? trooly? Those are the spellings which first tumbled out, only to be backspaced and replaced in half a heart beat. But still. What kind of bragging can I do if my fingers can't make the words look right??? Maybe I just need a shower. And some lunch. And to make about a jillion phone calls.
Also... I have realized that I feel like a different person completely. Almost as if I've been drugged, my brain chemistry altered. It has been creeping over me for months now. Probably just a side effect of my decision not to feel certain things, or think certain things. I have given my own personality a lobotomy, but that's a'ight. It was in need of a severe surgical intervention. As is my general gut region, but that's a different story. Hee... Speaking of which, I never really knew how hard it is for doctors to get fake boobs to look real. Out of the 5 doctors I investigated (for previously mentioned gut purposes) there was only one whose work didn't look like balls had been slid clumsily under skin. I just don't get it. But then, even before I as a fatty McFatterton, I didn't have an issue in that regard. But more than half of the women with fakies were no smaller than I was before I had kids and gained a cup size. So we're talking full B/full C women with slender builds going bigger. I guess I just don't get it. There is psychology behind it, I'm sure. They have a sister with huge knockers or were teased for being "flat" when they were younger or they watch too much pr0n. Me? I'm a woman, so I'll always complain about SOMETHING on my body, but before carrying twins turned my gut region into the repulsive thing that it is, I would have NEVER EVER IN A MILLION FUCKING YEARS considered surgery. Even a nose job--and I spent years as an adolescent LOATHING my profile. Gah. Being perfect is unattainable. Period. No one is perfect-- but that has been said so many times it is like overchewed gum, and has lost its flavor. Say it again. But feel it-- No One is perfect. (except for maybe You, and that's just MY opinion...) Seriously. Think of the person you know in real life who you most secretly desire to look more like, or who you consider to be "perfect." If you asked that person to name their flaws, they would have a list as long as the rest of us. It's human nature to want to be the Best or Most-Whatever, but it's nice to stop and realize there is no answer to this riddle and that everyone has flaws.
Now it sounds like I'm trying to say I'm better than those who choose surgery for different reasons than I am, and I guess at the end of the day we're all choosing it to feel better about our bodies, so I'm no different. I am fighting with myself right now over loving my body the way it is. I achieved that wonderful state of mind for a while, but this rampant weight gain lately is playing all sorts of tricks on my common sense. I still love my body, I just hate(d) what I've done to it. The hate is dissipating, though. I have realized some things about myself, and about my reasons for eating so strangely over the past 6 months. I am breathing again, and letting go of the hate because I have pried loose the grasp of guilt and flicked that nasty beast out of my life. I am me. And I am smart, funny, kind, sexy, and passionate. So there.
Speaking of THERAPY.... I better go shower so I'm not late for my ACTUAL therapy appointment. Not that there's anything left to say-- thanks for listening, guys!! Your checks are in the mail.
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So there I was, perched on the gyno's table, when--
nah. Nothin'. Just sounded like the start to a GOOD story. Heh.
So apparently there's this guy who does this music show in England, or thereabouts. I keep wanting to say Jules Verne, but that ain't it. Then I want to say Gary Jules, but that's not right either. Late Night with__________. (I looked it up: Jools Holland. I wasn't even CLOSE. get it? cuz the jools is spelled differently...) Anyway, his show is now broadcast on one of our HD stations, so I set a timer to record it. I sat down tonight to mend a hole in my friend's blanket while dinner cooked, and I turned on the telly-vision flipped to my recorded shows, saw this show in the list, remembered that I had wanted to check it out, clicked on a random episode out of the several there, and it had Pearl Jam on it!!! Wooooot! They were, of course, marvelous. The interview was, of course, waaaaay tooooooo short. I still want to lick Eddie Vedder's neck, but that's not going to change. ...until I can check it off my list of Life Goals. (I should really make one of those.) ANYWAY. It was awesome. But an unexpected bonus was that the other bands were all pretty fucking fantastic, as well. I didn't listen to all of them because the salmon only needed to roast for 25 minutes, and my doorbell would NOT stop ringing, but I'll get to that in a minute. Boy Scouts and hot black men from last night's sex dream (that conjunction was only meant to imply that both boy scouts and hot black men did the following action, not that both boy scouts and hot black men were in last night's sex dream; I may have once claimed to like 'em young, but, like...EWWW. Young = under 25, and now that we're on the subject, I am not actually attracted to even That variety of young anymore. Hell, I can barely be arsed to be attracted to ANYONE. Where the FUCK were we????) ...sorry...got carried away on the parenthetical notation... Ok, so...oh, yes, I was just saying that my little quiet time was interupted by boy scouts and cleaning product salesmen. So. Uh... where the hell was I? Oh yes. One of the bands was called The Zutons and they sang a song called "Valerie." It was KILLER, so I launched myself down the stairs and commenced to download it from Limewire, but..... It has been a s l o w download and all this time I have had a different song in my head. I bet it's on yours now, too. That's right. Steve Winwood, that 80s maniac who should really be back in the hiiiiiiiiiiigh life again. Or something. BAH. So now I just hope the fucking song finishes downloading so I can use it to flush out the other, eightieser song by the same name.
For a good time, call-- no, wait. For a good time, check out the comments I left from my cell phone on the post below this. I am chuckling. I had also forgotten how goddamned fast and painless pelvic exams were. My glorious breasts are officially lump free and to the doc I say, "You're welcome." (but you have to say it like that guy in that movie. No, I don't have any more information than that, but if you know who I mean, let me know.) I am pretty sure the incompetant and brain-dead "nurse" (because I'm pretty sure she wasn't a REAL nurse, more like she got some certificate off the internet...) damaged a nerve in my finger while trying and failing to extract blood from one of the veins on the back of my hand. Christ. When will I learn???? When will I stop trying to make everyone else's lives easier while making my own HARDER???? It seems like whenever I warn a potential blood taker that I have tricky veins they end up having a harder time than those I don't warn. FUCKERS. These two gave up. The one girl was truly a complete moron. The other seemed smart enough/normal but she had never drawn blood before. UHHHH.....???? I told her not to worry about it, that I was a good person to practice on since I am impervious to pain. ...maybe that's because my veins are impervious to needles!! Anyway, my fucking finger hurts. (Not my "fucking finger", my fuckin' FINGER.)
This feels like a post from the good ole days, doesn't it? That makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Or could that be the whiskey? Ha. No, it couldn't, actually, because I haven't consumed any.
Ah yes, so the door bell. The first was a salesman, selling that one stuff. the stuff that is supposed to replace every cleaning product in your home, blah blah blah. AND THEN. The bell rang again and there stood a dear little orthodonticized Boy Scout. They have this deal where for $35 a year they will come and put a flag up in front of your house for each national holiday and remove it the next day, etc. I meant to do it last year, but I missed them, so I was so excited that they came around. Then...the darling child (in all the awkward glory of any 13 or 14 year old) launched into his little spiel...with a stutter!! It was all I could do not to hug the scrawny child. Instead, I smiled and enthused over the presentation. And then. My husband the handsome smart ass who likes to fuck with sales people of all varieties walked up behind me. Fortunately the kid's troop leader was with him so he didn't have to deal with my husband on his own... cuz...as much as I love the man, and believe me, I love him a LOT, it makes me positively squirm when he goes all fuck-with-the-sales-guy on me. He was smiling and friendly, but what you have to understand is that my husband is a tall fella (6'2") and he has more confidence than is allotted to most humans when it comes to business and knowledge in general, so...he can be extremely intimidating in situations like that, even with a smile on his face. He scares the shit out of me, at least. heh. Ok, so anyway, I leapt into the kitchen for my check book and was back in the foyer in a blink, and all was well. But sheesh. Poor kid.
I also went a little wacky at the warehouse-membership store which shall remain nameless today. Books and movies and two-packs of CEREAL! Dumbass. But, anyway. I got a set of Stephen King movies... two of my all-time favorite movies-- Of all time, you redundant fool! The Shining and Shawshank, baby! Can I end another line that way! ...sorry, that last one might not have made sense, but, see...I had to make another line the same length as the prior two, and end it with an exclamation point even though a question mark would have been much more logical. And, as it turns out, the lines are only the same length in my editing window, not on the actual blog post, so it makes even LESS sense. Siiiiigh.
I can't seem to stop writing... I guess I'm just filling the vacum that has been steadily growing around me...
One of my best friends from high school had her first baby a few days ago. That boy is gorgeous. One of my longest-known bloggers had HER first--and hard-won--baby the day before that. That girl is also (and equally) gorgeous. The deepest, most thoroughly felt-in-my-heart congratulations to them all!!
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The kids were good, the scenery was great, the family was swell. What more can you ask for when entering what could have been Road Trip Hell?? We had some snow on the drive down, but it wasn't slippery. Our hotel fucked up everyone's reservations, but we all had beds in the end. It rained on the day we were going to swim and hike, but we went bowling and saw "Blades of Glory" instead. (loved the movie, but don't see it with your 13 year old neices and nephews if they're mormon...it's a little inappropriate!)
Our first stop was Goblin Valley, and it was a lot of fun. Lots of climbing and running around for the kids and the weather was perfect.
My little goblins, in a cave.
From my notebook:
The road between Goblin Valley and Zion National Park is scattered with scenery, more national parks, and towns so small they are hardly more than a loose collection of houses. Some of them make an impact on the 2-lane, twisting state road passing through them; some don't. Scenes of future based-on-a-true-story horror movies flash by the windows, the faded signs and peeling paint stabbing me with regret for having missed these towns when they were alive.
Here, "ramshackle" is the new "black".
Cameron tells of one town that was buried by a flash flood and left there, a miniature and dusty-western version of Atlantis. No buried treasures, no mystical creatures--just farm houses and rusted-out tractors.
The backseat hosts 3 sleeping boys (for a little while, at least), and my husband drives, so I am left to simply watch the road change shape in front of us. It feels like a long rope being held by a large, strong hand and given a shake--it coils and twists with such elegance and slow grace that we do not lose our way, but continue swallowing the yellow-dotted length of dark grey with the gaping mouth of our car.
We see herds of elk, and round a bend to surprise and be surprised by a deer--caught momentarily in our daytime-running headlights before bounding elegantly to the other side. Hawks circle against the bright, deep blue of the sea-like sky. I want to open the sun roof and stand up in my seat, opening my mouth to let sounds of joy permeate this serene world into which we've stumbled. There are few other cars and we feel wrapped in the solitude of our journey, safe in our rugged car packed with wholesome snacks and water. The handy little guage says we have 200 miles worth of gas left; we think there are fewer miles than that between us and the freeway--the real world.
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And I have yet another possible explanation. Are you ready? It's a dooooozy. Nah, not really. It's actually so simple that it's kind of pathetic that it took me so long to think of it. or... Maybe I already thought of it, but I forgot. Ok, so my idea is this: I have been using my brain for purely boring crap so therefore that is all it produces. Does anyone here remember how this blog used to leap off the screen and bite your neck? How it used to slide down into your lap and buzz? I do. But only faintly. Anyway, i think the true cause of my lack of sharpness and absent wit is that I haven't been using this brain the way I like to. And if you don't use it you lose it. Truly.
There is only one answer to this riddle. Stop writing boring crap. Stop writing for anything other than my own personal outlet for creativity. (yeah, that looks suspiciously like two answers, doesn't it? Well. I am recovering from some pretty severe brain damage, so what do you expect?)
I don't know if I'm going to remember to jump start my brain with More Blogging Than Ever, but it sounds like a miracle cure to ME!
I also realized that I used to be addicted to Blogging in a very real sense, but right now I'm just sort of numb to everything. I don't get that surge of adrenaline from intense interactions through comments, and from discovering new-and-exciting bloggers. I think I will try to focus. I think I will reassess my goals for the future. What do I want most? What steps will get me there? I think I know the answers to those questions. I am hesitant to say anything about a specific career path on here, for now. But. I also need to find out how that's going to go and decide what I want out of the experience. I don't want to miss out on any opportunities, but somehow I feel like I'm at the end of a road. ...which does not mean that I am not also at the beginning of another fabulous road. I will just wait and see.
I bet Orange loved that--because it was so cryptic and she IS a puzzle solver. haaaaa! (what's the word for that, by the way?)
So quit wasting my time by holding me down and forcing me to write a blog post!!!
Um, yeah.
I can't figure out why the pictures I send to my blog from my phone aren't showing up, but... I did figure out how to get the photos from the phone to my computer.
What's this? THIS is a glance down my shirt in celebration of my first published essay!! That's right. I submitted a creative non-fiction essay to the Hobble Creek Review, and the editor must have sensed the power of my cleavage because he selected me to be printed among a list of well-published and brilliant authors. (sucker). Juuuust kidding. I am just attempting humility, but it's hard when you're THIS awesome.
Ok, back to my long to-do list. kisses to you all--
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I know I did. They've always been lucky for me, and yesterday I think I got lucky twice. (buh-dum-CHING) I also got my pda phone, at long last. ...complete with a blue-tooth earpiece... I will attempt to retain my reputation as a bad ass, but I'm not sure how to fight such propaganda. I plan on only using it while driving or doing chores around the house, but you know how these things go... What starts out as a convenience ends up a crutch! Will definitely keep you posted. I can even check blogs and LEAVE COMMENTS quite easily from the phone, so watch your back. ...or your comments box. heh.
As for the Wii and its evil powers of muscle-pulling and tendon straining... well, I still love the little fella. And I'll probably continue injuring myself, because I'm just that stupid. But at least injuries make for good stories, right??
Here's reason #432 that my husband ROCKS: just before taking the kids to the tennis court, he assigned the twinners to clean their room and had his 10 year old help him clean the guest bathroom (which the twinners use because it's more of an "upstairs-non-master-bath" room...can you say "toothpaste as art" and "wow, I thought the tiles by the toilet where SUPPOSED to be yellow!"? Bless their hearts, it looks great!). And then suddenly my prep-for-Mom's-arrival went from "stressful" to "pretty much done." I tidied the guest room and put on the new bedding set I picked up a couple of weeks ago (I may have mentioned it--it was necessary because the little ones have adopted my two queen-sized bed spreads and somehow most of my queen sheet sets are missing at least one sheet so I've been using our king ones). With all of us working, it was done in under an hour. And now they're at the park and/or playing tennis and I am tidying a few remaining things and throwing dinner together. Mom lands at 9pm, so I'll be able to re-tidy after the littles are in bed and before dashing over to get her. Not too shabby.
I am feeling a little let down that my Dad's not coming on this trip, but I know she could use the break so I'm glad for her. We will have more fun in some ways, but I'm just glad I will be visiting them in June so I can still see him soon. He's a crazy old bird but I love him.
Here's something that erupted out of me like lava yesterday--
love flows over the land like heat waves, sound waves, radio waves. do you feel it? brushing past your ankles, pressing the air around you, washing through you like fire through paper.
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We navigate the waters of Life with whatever tools we have. Johnny Cash, at his piano, looks back at a lifetime, drowning in regrets. The sadness leaks out of the screen, dripping down the leg of my desk, pooling at my feet. It shimmers darkly, invitingly. Like an empire of dirt, or nails nine inches long...
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My latest Wii-related injury is from boxing. I am DAMN good at that boxing game, by the way. I KO'ed the first 5 or 6 guys I fought in the first round, and KO'ed the rest of 'em in round 2 or 3. Yeah. I fucking rock. About halfway through my run, though, I got sort of a strain/cramp thing in my left arm...I'm not sure which muscle it is-- not really the tricep, not really the bicep, more like the very tip of the deltoid...? Hm. Yes, it's where my deltoid meets my brachialis. See? left click on the one marked 13. It is still sore as a motherfucker, too.
My hands are also slightly tired from the gripping of the controlers, but I'm sure that's a typical video game casualty.
In other big-screen news... There is this HD channel that plays live music and yesterday Mr. husband found the Red Hot Chilli Peppers playing!! I was in heaven. I wish I could describe the feeling of that funky stuff coming at me from all sides, with the band larger than life in High Def-- fuuuuuuuuck. I was in a state of semi-shock. Drooling, staring, hands shaking. I keep wishing I had seen them play when they were here, but then I remember that they were here on August 15, and I could not have used tickets even if I had them. Next time. I'll catch them next time...
I've been sorting through a book with freelance opportunities in it. Good resource, poorly organized. It has one section called "consumer magazines" and guess what the next section is called? "More consumer magazines"!!!! What the FUCK???? So there are these two, giant sections alphabetized separately and that's as organized as it gets. The index in the back has different categories, but the listings are scattered throughout the two alphabetized sections.... WHY didn't these weirdos just organize the book into the categories from the index??? Ok, maybe I am a little more annoyed about this than I should be. My therapist did point out that I have some addictive personality traits and that an intense need for things to be organized according to my own logic is a part of taht. DAMMIT. There goes my assertion that I'm the only normal one around here!! It was a pretty interesting revelation, actually. I've always joked about being addicted to sugar/dessert/food-in-general, but this was no joking matter. But it sure is fun to joke about!! I have been very lucky to avoid an alcohol addiction and I think this answers the question of whether or not I will get around to trying heroin or crack. Ha. Juuuuuust kidding. I have always been curious about coke, but I would have never tried it, either. I'm not STOOOOPID. Sheesh.
I think I had more things to say... Hmm... My Mom will be here on Saturday from Maine. I can't wait! She will get passed around between my brothers and I for the first half of the week, and then all of us will go to Mesquite, NV...don't ask me why. One of the sisters-in-law reserved hotel rooms there, because she thought it might be close to Zion National Park... Uh... It's a good 90 minute drive each way, and Mesquite is already 4 or 5 hours from home. Eh. We'll live. I think there is a good hiking/picnicing gorge right next to the hotel or something. And there's always GAMBLING!! Oh, wait. I'm the only one of the group of 18 who would gamble. Oh well...I'm not complaining... (Sshhh! I'm complaining a LITTLE, but only to you guys....) The point of all that is that I won't be around much next week, but what's new there?? I am the original Non-Blogger lately, so you'll hardly even notice.
I hope you all have a great day, and I plan to do the same.
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On the back it says that the million dollar question is "Are you going to heaven?" Well, duh. Of COURSE I am!! I created heaven. I created hell. I choose..... hmmm.... tough call. I mean, in the heaven I created, there are a lot of the things that some people would imagine there being in hell, and in my version of hell there are all the self-righteous pricks, so there ya go. I do love the million dollar bill, though. And you can hardly see the religious fanatic print on the back. So, rock on.
Breaking news: I have just developed carpal tunnel syndrome from Wii Bowling... fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. That's so lame. I am so lame. Or...wrist-gimpy? Whatever.
The Easter Bunny (which I am at this moment picturing as a BugsBunnyCrossDresser-esque Jesus in a playboy bunny outfit, complete with ears...) brought my kids lots of chocolate. He/she even remembered at the last moment to hide the plastic eggs filled with candy. WE, on the other hand, gave the kids some thoughtful and talent-inspiring gifts. An electronic keyboard for Oliver, who starts piano lessons Tuesday!!! (stoked am I) And a set of youth tennis rackets and a couple of cans of balls for Max, who has been batting a tennis ball around with our raquet ball racket ever since he fell in love with tennis via the Wii(a). (Sorry...I can't fight it! I have Rhyme Disease...I think I caught it once while hiking in the woods; deer tick, etc.) AND. They are both ecstatic with their new hobbies--and are even pleasantly interested in each other's stuff, but not jealous. This is like, a new frontier and shit. I am suddenly raising children instead of babies. Or animals... ack. They are the apples of my eye(s). And, not to rub it in or anything, but they are truly the most handsome little boys in their entire school, if not the world. Actually I find it hysterical that we are all such bloody narcissists as to believe our own mini-mes are the most beautiful creations on god's earth. Or if they look more like our spouse, well...duh! Of course we think they're beautiful, we mated with their progenitor, didn't we??? Good stuff.
I miiiiiiight have found the general theme for my big novel project... And I did spend all afternoon (yesterday) indexing my "magazine writer's market" book. Mostly bookmarked fiction submission info, but there were a few traditional magazines that grabbed my attention. I am at long last getting serious about this shit. And I have to say, it feels great. Cuz...here's a tip to all you other literarily well-endowed strippers out there: It's the ones that go after it that get published, not the BEST. True story. Have you read some of the shit they have in your local library??? Pure, utter cow poo. We could all out-write those foo fighters in our collective sleep...mmm....just pictured a giant, silk-covered bed with all of us sprawled out.... Ok, so anyway, you get the point. I would highly encourage all of you dears to get out there and submit work. If I can have a piece accepted by a beautiful literary journal, so can you. Wooot!
Time flies when you're globetrotting. (in your mind). I can't believe I am going so long between posts these days. It's a pretty strange feeling. I did write yesterday, but TRUST ME, you did not want to read that post. The post was a rant of the most scathing, self-loathing kind... It felt good to say some of those things, and to attempt to puzzle through what led me to feel that way and stuff. I guess what's hard for me is that this blog (or BHW, really) was all about honesty. The cold, hard truth of my little imperfect soul laid out before whoever happened to stumble past. And I liked it. It felt like every day was a catharsis. But I have lost that touch, and so my posts have dwindled to one or two a week, and they are fairly dry. I guess it's easy to be honest when you don't hate yourself. But that's a step... admitting that I hate myself. I just would rather not name one of the causes of that hate. On second thought, I would rather not name either of the causes. There are two. But if anyone can hack into my account and read the last post I saved to draft, that lucky person will see the black and rotting flesh around my heart. Maybe the only way for me to feel free to fully express myself again is to start over. And to at least attempt some anonymity this time. Just knowing there are people out there who know me and are reading this--at least occasionally--nauseates me.
Daaaaaaaaamn. Sorry for the downer. And sorry for thinking out loud, without making much sense.
Today is a beautiful, blue-sky day. It'll be warm and sunshiney and that's just based on my social calendar. Having the man with the magic hands give my boys some GOOD haircuts today, then meeting dear D. for lunch.
AND. Hubby got home last night and filled me with... yes, that, but also loooovve. And life is really pretty damn good all around. But. Sometimes it hits me that I ate my way past Hot somewhere in the fuzzy, recent past and it sucks the joy right out of me. And in moments like that I wrestle with wondering why it's important to me at all, and how I came to care so much--when I would like to claim that I don't care at all--about my appearance. This is my great weakness, and I offer it to you on this great alter under the thousand suns of the world's widest webs. So there. That's one of the reasons I hate myself. I hate myself for being fat, and even more for caring that I am. That's reason 1a and 1b, just for the record. Reason 2 is completely separate. Although...I suppose everything about me is intertwined somehow. Whatev.
I get to go to Maine in June and that's really all I need to know. And on that note, a palate cleanser:
Lucia Beach Road 1975-1983
I remember running through the marshy field, next to the creek, scared to death of stepping in our version of quick sand, “honey pots.”
I remember the smooth, sand-like dirt road leading to my house and the lake-sized pot holes which were such fun to maneuver on a bicycle.
I remember my cousin giving me a ride on her mini motorbike. We skidded to a tumbling stop, pinning her there, while I stood filling with guilt that I had somehow caused her broken leg.
I remember lying on the bottom bunk and thinking I should cry upon the news of my much older cousin’s death; instead I pictured him washing ashore, and the boat he had slipped from in the dark of night.
I remember building our tree house, and the way I held my breath each time I reached for the next wobbly foothold as I followed the older girls up the first time.
I remember cutting a hole in my favorite green corduroys and as I heard my mother walking down the hall, hastily asking my cousin whether I should say, “I did it on purpose,” or, “I did it by accident.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she answered me.
I remember the endless procession of beautiful summer days on which we, her 4 youngest granddaughters, would burst through her screen door and recite our favorite line, “Grammie, whadda you have to eat?”
I remember that it was always Kool Aid and something from Hostess.
I remember the pattern on her countertop, the cool clean feeling of her orderly house, bursting with knick knacks.
I remember the two attic bedrooms in that house, and the hours and hours of playing “college” up there.
I remember learning to spell “Afghanistan” in one of those deeply eaved rooms, and marveling over the number of afghans in my grandmother’s closet.
I remember the way the word “cousin” felt more like “sister”, and the slow dawning of realization that it didn’t mean the same to other people, that we were lucky.
I remember learning to ice skate, and the way the cold air sliced through my heavy layers and came out the other side, leaving me wondering why all the fuss.
I remember the Crab Girls, who picked out meat in the bleach-drenched fluorescent lit room in our basement.
I remember their loud and misplaced laughter, and the wall of cooking crab that met my nose when I walked from that room to the one with the enormous black cooker.
I remember sorting crabs, and getting pinched; the big claws on a dark brown disc with tiny eyes; my mother’s kind reminder that you must pick them up by the smallest leg.
I remember my fearless and gentle mother turning into a terrified and angry monster when that boy cousin ran toward her with snakes draping off him like streamers on a float.
I remember that harmless big grey house at the end of its long, straight driveway, perched in the middle of a field; and how fearfully we avoided it on Halloween and Girl Scout Cookie sales calls, somehow driven by a need for mystery in our quiet neighborhood.
I remember lying on our bellies, behind the short row of hedges and peering through binoculars, into the window of the neighbors across the street. I remember my confusion over the older kids’ excitement at what we saw, and looked again for the pot while wondering why they didn’t just call it a pan.
I remember the quietness of that narrow, winding street, and how it was shattered by a plane crash once, a car crash twice.
I remember riding our bikes to the tiny airport because it had vending machines (and was much closer than any store), with our plan for evading kidnappers firmly in place.
I remember wishing I could live in a place with sidewalks and neighbors, like the kids on TV.
I remember sitting on the school bus, and singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” into the fogged up window, as we rounded the corner to cross the river, and thinking I might know something about Love at 6 years old.
I remember falling asleep on the top bunk, wearing a silver ring with a puppy on it, securely on my finger and how I ached for it for weeks afterward when I woke to find it missing.
I remember the woods behind my school; a little alcove-like clearing, the delicate pink lady slipper growing in the shade of a mossy rock, and the tingly reverence I felt for that forbidden flower.
I remember the day they finished building our house, and the many days that followed, packing all our things for the move. Two miles—and a world—away.
I sort of can't believe my last post was last Tuesday. And not just because Tuesdays are for drinking beer at noon, sitting in bars facing giant carwashes, and having illicit affairs with cancer-surviving Tour de France champions......... Or something. If I could sing and/or compose music I would try to take on the lovely Ms. Crow. I was born to be a rocker. I'm really not sure what happened, but somewhere along the line I was fucked out of my singing talents and musical ability in general. I can read music, but I prefer to memorize songs and play them. I can make up songs, but I could never tell you what notes were involved or replay the same stuff. So, therefore, I am the furthest thing from a musician this planet has ever seen. I'm also pretty far away from a specific musician that this planet sculpted out of sunsets and crashing waves, but that's a different story.
Last night, at 11:34 pm Mountain Standard Time, I finished the final book in the second/final leg of an 8 book series. I have so many other books I want to read, but I am already scheduling in my second reading of the first 5 books. The last 3 were way too much about war strategy and far too little about interstellar travel and saving sentient species... I'm a geek. I hope that doesn't come as a surprise to you.
I tweaked my back having sex yesterday. When we started out it was a little sore, basically between my left hip and my spine, but by the time we were finished... well. I'm in some pain when I move in certain ways. But it was worth it. winka-winka.
We finally finished planning our trip to Maine. I have chosen to take trips to other groovy places like Maryland, Florida, Hawaii, and FRANCE for the past 2 summers, so it has now been 3 years since my last visit home. I am ready to burst with joy at the prospect of seeing those familiar places again. I can almost smell the ocean, and taste the fresh seafood. There are a couple of friends I haven't even talked to since my last visit and I can't wait to see EVERYONE! There are new babies and new marriages and new houses built. There are new people living in my grandmother's house...that should be strange. There are so many people to see, so many bonds to recharge. I can't wait to see everybody. We'll be there for the Fourth of July which will be quite a historic event for me. I haven't been home for the 4th in ten years. Thanksgiving is what I really miss at home, but this will be more fun for the kids than that would be. The small town parade in the morning, a fabulous cook-out in the mid-day and Fireworks at night. Swimming and swimming and lighthouses and seafood and old friends and the extended family I was close to in my childhood-- what could be better? That's right: not a damn thing.
