December 8, 2009 • 1:51 pm 0
Until I determine precisely what I want to do with this domain name, this “blog” is closed. I post more regular updates to my blog at Blogger – Kcgirlgeek’s Virtual Ink. If you happen by here…I’d love for you to hop over there and say hello. 
Filed under: Blogosphere
December 2, 2009 • 10:09 am 1
You know, if we’re all honest…it really does give us a sense of superiority, a little, a little pride, maybe some small feeling of validation, when we’re very confident that we’re right about something, and that the “other person” is wrong. Sometimes that “other person” is a vast SEA of people, entire populations of countries, human beings standing up opposed to your “knowledge” as far as the eye can see. And somehow, even though we’re not apt to admit it, we can stand facing all of those fellow human beings utterly convinced that we, with all of our “special” revelation, are the one that is right, and they…are either “unenlightened” and ignorant, stupid by choice, “deceived” by some supernatural force, or delusional. Yet here we stand, in opposition to vastly more minds than what we see behind us…convinced of our “rightness.” The arrogance of it is so profound, it almost escapes words.
I think that I can probably be a rather arrogant person. I am, very likely, overly confident in my intellect.” Oh, don’t get me wrong…I’m well aware that there are many people far more intelligent. It’s certainly not that I think I “know everything.” In fact, the older I get, the more sure I am of how truly little I know. The older I get, the more easily the words, “I don’t know,” roll off my tongue. Perhaps…just perhaps…that is the first step out of intellectualism, into wisdom.
(In-motion by J Salmoral)
Last night I dreamed of this. I woke, only for a few seconds, thinking, “I must remember this.” But then it all drifted away under a blanket of warm exhaustion. All that was left me when I awoke, was this impression of what I now write. A vague, fleeting, foggy impression. But as I sit here, morning coffee in hand, my mind swells with thoughts of this paradox. The more I know that I do not “know,” much of which I used to proclaim to know…the more that I truly know, that I don’t know very much at all.
I look at this from a couple of perspectives…in my journey from Christian fundamentalism, to atheism…almost, for me, like two sides of the exact same coin. Oh sure, at once I could provide “evidence” through human scientific discovery…at the other end, I could provide “evidence” by human faith…faith…the “evidence” of things not seen. I chuckle at it now, finding it both desperately sad, and just downright desperate.
On the other hand, scientists at one time held many theories, that for some, became personal beliefs, that were later proven to be scientifically wrong. At one time geologists were all wrong about the origin of continents. They thought the earth was a solid object. Now they believe that the earth consists of plates. The theory of plate tectonics has replaced the old theory, which is now known to be false. Science is an ever-growing, changing, dynamic field of study. It is fascinating because it is always disproving itself and, in the process, discovering more “truth.” Religion, on the other hand, is an ancient sedentary system of beliefs that tends to scoff at discovery, learning, and the intellect, and often holds to antiquitous ideologies that often have no factual basis, many of which have caused strife, war, hatred, and vile behavior for centuries. Science, however, by its very nature, is open to revelation and correction. I have “worshiped” at both of these altars.
Today…I “know” only one thing. I don’t KNOW, with absolute certainty, very much at all. Spiritually, I would probably be considered an agnostic. And you would definitely not be able to paint me with a broad brush by labeling my spirituality as belonging to any particular “prophet” or teacher. I believe in kindness and charity, in honesty and dignity, in compassion and in taking peaceful action to affect positive change in the world around me. Sometimes I am lazy in my actions, but my intent is toward goodness and kindness, and toward loving the other human beings with which I share this planet….because we’re all “in this boat” together. I try never to look carelessly at another’s pain, to take delight in their joys, to never belittle someone for their choice of paths through this existence, to empathize with my fellow travelers, and to remain open to learning.
My values are strongly set on this one other thing…
Whereas some atheists and some fundamentalists are set on their own brands of “evangelizing” others to “set them straight,” or “show them the fallacies of their beliefs,” or even (possibly underlying whatever other “reason” they give for their arguing incessantly the “truth” of their own stance) to show themselves to be “right” and prove the opposition to be delusional, or even to “save” them from their “false beliefs”….I have no such passion. As a matter of fact, I find that such “discussions” and arguments are counter-intuitive to allowing for individual human growth. The greatest teacher of all…is life itself. My journey IS my teacher. Your journey…yours. Our paths may cross, but it is not my “higher calling” to attempt to alter your path. You have everything you need…within you, and around you…to take the journey.
I end this long journal entry with only this, the Socratic principle:
“The unexamined life is not worth living.”
It is, in my opinion, not wise to hold too tightly to anything, any person, any belonging, or any principal, without the awareness that the world is constantly changing, in flux, in varying states of decay and renewal. Life is not static.
Filed under: Blogosphere , agnosticism, awareness, belief, growth, life, spirituality, static
November 22, 2009 • 10:54 pm 1
Today I was looking over my favorites on Flickr and I ran across this video I hadn’t seen for a while. It washed over me like a cool summer breeze. And I got to thinking about how nature…is its own music. Music may very well be “the universal language,” but all five of our senses are singing beautiful symphonies every day, if we just listen…
~ the sound of the rain or a thunderstorm
~ the smell of the air after a thunderstorm
~ the sounds and smells of the ocean
~ the colors of any sunrise or sunset
~ the way the brisk autumn air smells and how it feels on my skin
~ the warmth of a thick cotton cable sweater in the autumn
~ the sound of fallen leaves crackling under my feet
~ the colors of the leaves in Carthage, MO in the autumn
~ the sight of the first really fluffy big-flaked snowfall
~ the way my partner’s skin feels and smells, and the beauty of her soft curves
~ the look on my son’s face when he’s truly happy
~ the sound of my mother’s laughter
~ the silky soft fur of my kitten and the sound of her purr
~ the smell of really good coffee first thing in the morning
~ the softness of flannel sheets and fuzzy blankets
~ the smell of clean laundry
~ the way really good food, can affect all five senses
~ the caress of a spring breeze on my skin and through my hair
~ the fragrance of grape irises and carnations
~ windchimes and birds chirping
~ crickets late at night
~ a pitch black sky full of stars
~ putting on warm clothes fresh out of the dryer on a cold day
I don’t ever want to forget to notice these things. Beauty…is often something so very simple.
Filed under: Blogosphere , gratitude, senses, sensory
November 7, 2009 • 4:59 pm 3
All my rambling about doing something worthwhile, it’s all such manic grandiosity. I re-read old posts and laugh at myself. It’s embarrassing to have shared my dreams and then have my complete laziness at accomplishing them, be so apparent. And yet, every now and again, for some reason, I’m compelled to do it again. I hope that ONE of these times…I will actually be able to take the step forward to DO those things I long to do.
Alone I sit. A cup of hot tea, cigarette lit, resting in an ashtray, my desk cluttered with papers, bills, pens…my mind cluttered with unforgiving thoughts toward myself for accomplishing nothing, both now and in my past. I don’t suppose I can exactly say that I accomplished “nothing,” but rather nothing of any consequence in fulfilling the longing in my soul to create something that is wholly me…that reflects my soul, my passion.
I’m 46. I recognize that this is mid-life crisis mode for me. I’m quite sure that it’s a common theme of thought for many my age. Yet knowing I’m not alone in my grief and yearning…sure isn’t giving me much comfort.
Over the past few months I have traipsed through a myriad of “interests” trying to find something to DO that will either make money for me and my family (god knows Sharon would probably love to have more help supporting us), or…at the very least…to find something to do that will squelch this incessant gnawing need in my soul to express itself somehow. I have an HD camcorder, software for making videos, a new classical guitar, a tiny keyboard, my journal here, books stacked around the room…maybe I thought just SEEING all of this stuff would inspire me. Sharon is an angel to tolerate me. No…I mean REALLY.
I can’t even call this “tortured artist syndrome” because I have not BEEN an “artist” for so long now, that I can’t even conjure up a simple creation to share with my CATS, let alone another human being. So I’ll just be honest and call it mid-life crisis that is teetering on depression. Yes…I suppose if I have to admit it…I’ve probably been manic, clamouring for things, running after every idea as though it were some fairytale salvation of sorts, never accomplishing anything real in the process, and driving everyone around me insane. I feel as if I don’t fit in the world in any useful way any more. I’ve always had an undercurrent of that feeling throughout the entirety of my life, but now…it’s like a ravenous scavenger…it perches on my shoulder waiting for the next piece of dead flesh to drop.
It’s ugly, it’s mean, it’s scary…and it’s where I am right now.
You can’t write about anything hopeful when you’re feeling this way. Music soothes me, but I can’t hide in it long enough to make everything else I feel go away for more than the length of time the music is playing. And if I take my focus off the songs…the wolf comes back to devour any hope that I’ve gained. I feel trapped. I’m caged within my own soul, my own body, and in this apartment. And the latter…is by choice. I don’t WANT to go outside. I don’t want to be out there and see, under a looking glass…amplified…how useless I really am compared to every other single person that is living out there and really LIVING.
I have no self-discipline. I am lazy. And lazy people just don’t accomplish much. These are the “sins” that will crush my dreams. I’m not even sure I know what my dreams are anymore. Well okay…that’s not entirely true. I want to WRITE. But I want to write something someone will READ and gain something FROM. I don’t want to just sit here and endlessly type rubbish into a machine that has no response to me either negative or positive.
I want to write something that will come to LIFE and have a being of it’s OWN. I want to GIVE BIRTH. Maybe…just maybe…what I am going through is a creative pregnancy. I certainly FEEL moody, pained, disturbed, sick….yup, I feel pregnant.
The greatest problem with all of this, for me, is that I don’t feel I have a lot of TIME. I don’t feel I have the luxury of seemingly endless years, the way I felt when I was oh…15. Now the clock is ticking and I don’t work well under pressure. At least that’s been my experience in the past. Pressure tends to paralyze me, and that…that…is what I’m feeling, in part.
Maybe after this M.R.I. on Monday…maybe this won’t be so intense. I’ve not told anyone…not a soul…but I have some fear about the M.R.I. and that fear is that I may have something very very wrong with me. Oh sure…that’s probably grossly melodramatic. I don’t know. But many things have run through my mind. Things like bone cancer, leukemia, a tumor somewhere….so now I stop to light another cigarette. Maybe I’ve always had a secret death wish…a sort of under-stated suicidal nature somewhere within. A lot of my life would tend to appear confirming of that diagnosis. But my conscious mind…is not ready to die. And every fiber of who I am inside…resists that idea.
It’s funny to me, that every time I am in crisis mode of any sort in my life…I always gravitate back to the music and poetry of Stevie Nicks. It’s like…somewhere in what she writes…I find ME…that part of me that longs, that yearns, that dreams, that WANTS to reach for me. And yet that girl…that young girl…she’s buried so deep within me that I can’t REACH her anymore. I feel myself stretching my arms to her and trying desperately to grab hold of her hands, but she won’t reach BACK to me. She just sits there…a semi-blank stare on her face. The only emotion I see there is sorrow, and she’s looking sadly at me as though I have betrayed her and she no longer trusts me. I promised her so many things throughout the course of our life, and I never made good on the promises. And now…she resents me, a little, and grieves…a lot. And she is far too fearful of more heartache to reach back to me. But she sits and listens to Stevie too. And I hear her humming…she’s still hungry…she still wants more, but she doesn’t trust ME to feed her.
Amazing that I can write so much about so little. I talk the same way. I can ramble on endlessly about things that don’t matter in the least. Well…all of this matters, but not to anyone but me. And to try to explain these feelings to Sharon or someone that is just doing what they have to do to SURVIVE another day at work…just makes them hate me for having the time to even THINK about this kind of shit. I mean…Sharon doesn’t have TIME to sit and debate about what she should “do with the rest of her life.” She’s busy supporting our family and doing those needful things that are really TRULY important. Oh sure…they might not leave a lasting impression on the “rest of the world,” but they leave a lasting impression on me and Darren. Her gift is giving US life. And that…that’s something vital and important. And even though it might not seem like much to her…it’s a whole whole lot to me. Perhaps I have a lot more to learn from her about being important…to few…being just as vital as being important to many.
You know, a few years back, there was a class reunion for my graduating high school class. I didn’t go. I didn’t go because I didn’t want to answer the question, “So what do you DO?” I didn’t really want to hear the answers from my classmates either, when someone asked THEM that. But now…it’s not so much that I care what OTHER people think of what I “do,” but that it’s become a painful wound to me. I don’t “do” anything. I don’t even think that journaling can allow me to claim to be a writer. I haven’t “given anything” to the world. I haven’t contributed in some important way. Oh sure, I raised a son to the ripe old age of 13. I wasn’t a great mother. I was passable, but it wasn’t a talent, that’s for sure. And I made many mistakes with him…of course, we all do, with our children. But outside of that…I have really done nothing.
So here I sit…typing away…longing to “be a writer,” and indeed “writing,” but unfulfilled, because I want my writing to MATTER. I want SOMETHING I do to matter. If I leave this world without having written whatever it is that I am here to write…then I have failed. And I feel ever so close to that becoming a reality. And I am scared.
You know, I would like to be able to write a very raw, poignant account of a life that has been scarred by drug abuse, moved by the beauty of the world, and motivated by the desire to touch others in a meaningful way, but that little girl…she won’t reach back…she refuses, because I have let her down too many times before and without her…I cannot connect the dots. I cannot paint the landscapes. I cannot sing the songs, write the poems, I cannot claw my way up out of this well without her, and I cannot stay here, for we shall both drown.
I don’t know where the story starts. I don’t know where it ends. I don’t even know what the ligaments are that connect the structure of the body. The ligaments, fibers, cells, that make up this life…are disconnected…scattered, broken…a kaleidoscope of tortured images. My memories are fractured. The fog of past drug abuse has made ordering the visions in my mind near to impossible. I can’t remember when and where so MANY things happened. Details are fuzzy, emotions are numbed. And through all the recent past years that I have NOT been illegally drugged, I have been LEGALLY drugged because of this illness, and it has not rendered my memory any better, but rather it seems to have made it so so much worse. I’m actually not sure that the medications haven’t done FAR more damage to me than all the years of other crap. No one to blame for any of that though…no one but me.
I suppose that I could put all of my writing, no matter how trite and unimportant, on my blogs and just call it good. Maybe once every few months someone will accidentally happen by and read it. If I’m very very lucky, perhaps they’ll leave a comment and I’ll know that at least someone READ what I wrote. But the dreams of fame (no matter how small the “fame”)…yes, I suppose that’s what they are…or something akin to that, anyway…those dreams are probably just childish fantasies and I have to be honest with myself…they will probably never come to fruition.
I am ONE middle-aged homemaker in a world full of ridiculously talented people who are able to tell THEIR stories in much more polished and powerful ways, and I cannot compete in that realm. I am so not in their league. I am one voice in a sea of voices, and the entire world will go on when I pass, as if I never was, and there is not a damn thing that I can do about that. My family…or what is left of them then…they will notice my absence. But by and large, I will pass from this world without fanfare, without a blink, without anyone except them, ever knowing what I felt, what I experienced, what I thought, what I dreamed, what I believed, and how amazing and beautiful life really was…to me. That is just the inescapable truth for all but the tiniest percentage of people on this planet. And it is a desperately sad truth…for us all. Because today…today…someone wonderful, and beautiful, and full of wisdom and truth that would heal many hearts…will die. And their story will never be heard, will never be known, and the beauty of all that they learned in their life will be lost. And we ALL will lose just a little something because of that, but…we won’t even know we lost it.
And perhaps that is why, people like Stevie, are so loved and revered. Because somewhere inside all of us…we know the truth. We know that we will pass from this life without ever being able to tell our stories. So we look to Stevie, and others, to tell them FOR us. And when we hear them sing, see their paintings, or read their words, and RELATE to them…perhaps we feel that somehow, in some way…someone heard at least a part of US in that, and that we were, if even for a moment, understood.
In my mind…I am like Stevie…twirling across that stage, draped in chiffon and lace, the free spirit, abandoning my fears, pouring my heart out, touching thousands of people, letting them know that they are LOVED…that someone cares deeply for them…singing their stories…telling the world that THEY matter. Has anyone ever written anything for you? Yes…someone has. And I hear her singing. She touches my bruised and battered heart with the gentleness of butterfly’s wing, and in that touch…I begin to heal. And that will probably have to be enough…unless…
I can I pick up the torch…not as a singer, but as a writer, and use the gift that God has given ME…to do the same. Can some of us pay it forward, can some of us jump into that flowing river of truth, and ride it with sincerity of purpose, taking others into that warm ocean tide of healing as we go? Can I….?
*This entry gets to the HEART of why I want to write. It may sound grandiose and delusional (and perhaps it is), but I want to be a voice for others that have no voice. The ordinary, the housewife, the guy that’s working 9 to 5 and has so much to say, but isn’t eloquent with words, the teenager reeling from the heartache of that lost first love, the drug addict gripped in addiction, running from pain, because her heart is so sensitive that it gets crushed under the weight of this life…the one that longs to be free, but doesn’t know how to cry anymore. This…this is my passion. And it’s an enormous weighty thing, and I don’t know where to begin…but it’s all in the world that I want outside of my family. I want to paint, with words, the beauty of our souls…all of our souls. We are all survivors, artists, creators…every one of us. It’s just that many of our songs go unsung, our words go unspoken, our stories go untold.*
Filed under: Blogosphere , dreams, goals, laziness, procrastination, writing
April 7, 2009 • 4:59 pm 5
Today, as I was doing my usual “Googlerama” festivities for the day (searching around through topics that interest me), I discovered something that saddened me, and yet it was already keenly familiar to me on a personal level. It seems that people with disabilities, particularly those that are predominantly homebound, often struggle with tremendous feelings of inadequacy and may feel lonely, depressed, and bored, among other things.
I don’t pretend to know what it’s like to be physically disabled. My father is physically impaired, and I have seen some of his challenges, and those of my mother, due to this. However, I can only speak from my own internal experience, and that is with mental health disabilities.
I have rapid cycling bipolar disorder, in addition to struggling somewhat with agoraphobia, and generalized anxiety. Then there are some other annoyances that are aggravated by my mental state such as colitis and IBS. Leaving the house is not as simple for me as throwing on some clothes, putting on a bit of makeup, hopping in the car and zooming off. It is a torturous, stressful, and painful process, that starts hours before I leave my house (on the rare occasions that I do so). I worry. I worry about everything. I worry about things normal people never even remotely consider. I shake, my heart pounds, my palms sweat, I feel weak, irritable, and even nauseous sometimes. Medication, while making these things more manageable, is definitely not a “cure all.” And to be painfully honest, I’m not a very good example of staying on my medication consistently, even when I know I should. I still fight with myself about my illness, as though my wishing it wasn’t so, would make it go away. It doesn’t.
Thinking about the stark reality of this, stirred my soul. It’s a topic that feels close to home. Maybe too close to home. To blog about “feelings” and shortcomings, disabilities and desires….not really on the top of my list of “fun things to do.” As a matter of fact, it’s downright scary as hell. How much of the “real me” am I willing to put out there for public inspection, and ultimately judgment? People, by nature, especially those on the internet, seem to lean toward the judgmental side of human nature, possibly because many are intellectual or fancy themselves so. Anonymity…doesn’t help matters. Many of the more cowardly internet “frequent flyers,” so to speak, take great immature delight in tearing others down, often with no reason other than…they can. (I don’t think generally intelligent people do this, just the more immature.)
So here I sit, typing out what feels like a sort of death sentence to normalcy. And by “normalcy” I mean the convienience of staying very shallow, always a bit humorous, and at arm’s length, emotionally, from anyone in cyberspace. I, of all people, love safety. Emotional safety, mental safety, physical safety….safety. (Yes, I’m a bit of a germaphobe too.) But what do I have to contribute to anyone if I don’t make myself transparent? Sure…I could continue to hide behind funny stories (not that I don’t have some genuinely funny stories to share), or…I can be 100% real, raw, vulnerable, and essentially naked. I don’t know if “naked me” is all that appealing (I mean gravity at the age of 45 is frighteningly real…you don’t wanna know). But isn’t ME all that I have to share? And in all honesty….isn’t it also what I want from you? Yes, yes it is.
I have decided, after probably not near enough thought, that one of my ferocious dust bunnies (fear) needs to come out from under the bed and face the light of day. Sure, I could leave it under there, forget about it, let it grow. That’s probably not the best idea. For the past 11 years I have managed to be on the internet, “socially” relating to others without ever really showing “those” parts of myself. I’ve worn the Mommy Hat, the Gamer Hat, the Blogger Hat, the College Student Hat, the Facebook-MySpace Hat, the High School and College Alumni Hats, the Poet Hat, the Vlogger Hat, the Shopper Hat (online shopping, of course), the Geek Hat (hence my internet persona name of “kcgirlgeek”), I’ve even worn the Catch A Predator and Let’s Help the Cops Hat. *sigh* After all of that, I think it’s time to conquer the fear of being hatless….the fear of exposure.
So from here on, I’m going to be blogging (and soon vlogging) about the challenges of life with a disability, from my perspective and my family’s, and…I’m going to address the issues of feeling inadequate, lonely, and bored, and how we can begin to conquer those things together. These feelings are not unique to the disabled, by the way, as though I’d have to tell anyone that. I’m going to address ways in which we can stretch ourselves by stepping outside of our comfort zone in ways that are beneficial to our well-being. And I’m going to invite you to share in those experiences with me, via HD video and blog, which will be uncomfortable for me, and hopefully uplifting for at least one other person. Because if I can take one other person on this journey with me, it will be all the more worth it.
*The image used above is by disastrous.
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Filed under: Living With Disabilities , boredom, disabilities, fear, feeling inadequate, loneliness
March 28, 2009 • 3:42 pm 7
I find it oddly comforting that pretty much any question you can think of, no matter how bizarre or random, someone somewhere has taken the time to research this odd thought you’ve had; you know, the one you thought no one else would ever think; and they’ve posted the answer somewhere on the web. And there it sits, just waiting for you to Google it up from wherever it is that sleepy little known facts hibernate.
WARNING: Possibly dangerous practices will be discussed in the next paragraph. I’m NOT suggesting this as a solution to anything, I’m just saying that my family does it. I’m sure we do a lot of things other people should NEVER do (we’re risk takers), so…keep that in mind.
It’s extraordinarily and unseasonably cold today in Missouri. Yeah, I know…the whole country has whacked out weather right now, we’re not special. Toward the end of last year, we discovered that our electric bill was much lower if we set the oven on about 350 degrees and left the oven door open a bit instead of only running our furnace. I’m not really sure why that is, being they’re both electric, but for some reason it works. It keeps the furnace from running constantly trying to keep up. Maybe we just have a really old furnace, and a really efficient stove, I don’t know. What I do know is that it lowered our electric bill…a lot. So being that my toes were about to fall off and turning blue (I have issues with shoes; I simply don’t wear them at home…ever) I walked to the kitchen to do the usual “stove thing.” As I set the stove on pre-heat, it occurred to me that I had no idea why I needed to pre-heat it and not just set it to bake. Why do I think of things like that? Seriously, I’d like to know. Because the next time I sit down on the toilet, I guarantee I’ll probably sit there and wonder something equally abstract like…who invented toilet paper? Great…now that I’ve wondered it, I’ll have to Google that too. *sigh*
Googlemomma to the rescue! I shall find our answers! YAY for Howstuffworks! And I quote,”The idea of preheating an oven is to get all of the air in the oven up to the proper temperature so that the burner does not have to come on very often or for very long.“ Well what the hell? How could I live 45 years without knowing that? Also…pre-heating, I come to find out, excelerates the speed of heating, whereas if you just set the oven to bake, the heat rises more slowly. Pre-heating also keeps things from burning (when you’re cooking, not heating your house) because it keeps the infrared radiation from the burner to a minimum. There’s more information on the above linked page about broiling too, because some other strange person wondered about broiling, apparently.
How can a mother cook for 20 years without knowing these things? I bet everyone else already knew all of this, and as usual, I’m the last to know.
DISCLAIMER: Don’t try this at home if you have a gas stove, particularly if you have a gas stove and you are a smoker. I think there’s a very good chance that could be…uhm…dangerous.
Sidenote: If the toilet paper question is really nagging you now…here’s the answer. 
*I’d like to take this moment to thank the Chinese. For had it not been for you, it might have taken us much longer to have arguments with our spouses about the way the roll goes on the holder. I have a deep sense of gratitude for this, among other things. Ni hao.
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Filed under: Blogosphere, Life on the Homefront, Middle Aged Crazies , blog, cold weather, family, heating, humor, inventions, keeping warm, mommy, toilet paper, weather
March 27, 2009 • 1:49 pm 1
This morning I woke up a bit earlier than usual, and before my usual date with The Best Defense and In Session on CourtTV (or TruTV, whatever stupid name they’ve given it now), there was an infomercial on. Now, I’m not usually one for watching infomercials. I think they’re generally an insult to our intelligence. But this one was different. It was an insult to our intelligence with built in LOLs.
The infomercial was for Kymaro from Ubuyez.com. Yeah, I know…sounds like a character on World of Warcraft that is working for a Chinese gold farming business selling game currency. If you’re not a PC gamer and that comment makes no sense, I’m sorry, but trust me…it’s true.
Anyway, so I proceed to stare at the screen, coffee in hand, as we’re “treated” to multiple before and after shots of some rather fluffy women (I don’t like the word fat). So yeah, the full body girdle they’re trying to sell…actually appears to work. But as I’m sitting there thinking it might be nice to have one of these full-body-condom-suit-flab-filter-thingiemajiggers, this scene runs through my mind:
Interior Random Urban Nightclub, 1 am
Neon light drenched, strobe lit, active bar scene.
VOICE OVER (Handsome Guy at Bar speaking):
“Suddenly I saw her. She seemed perfect in every way…gently flowing long blonde hair, sun-caressed silky smooth skin, slinky black dress, cherry red lips, and mossy green sparkling eyes that begged attention. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. I had to speak to her, to explore the possibilities…”
POV Handsome Guy at Bar: moves toward Attractive Woman.
CLOSE UP Attractive Woman’s eyes as her eyes meet his.
Handsome Guy at Bar:
“Hey, Baby, whatcha doin’ tonight after you leave this joint? Wanna come over to my place for a drink, maybe watch a movie, get to know each other, just chill?”
Seemingly Slim Woman at Bar:
(Ignore the apparent lack of common sense in this reply…hey, I mean, it’s just what randomly ran through my head, but I’d have probably smacked him, myself, and she…should have…even though this was just my mind’s interpretation of the consequences of buying the body-condom-suit-flab-filter-thingiemajigger.)
“Well sure, Baby, that sounds like fun!”
FADE OUT
(30 minutes later)
EXTERIOR NIGHT Guy’s car pulling into his townhouse drive.
Slim Woman:
“I know why you invited me over, so let’s just cut to the chase and get it on, Baby.”
Handsome Guy:
“Oh, I knew…I knew you were just what the doctor ordered.”
Slim Woman: (Amused and delighted by this amorous new acquaintance…giggles)
“Well just let me go to the bathroom and freshen up a bit.”
Handsome Guy:
“No problem, Sweet Thing. It’s right there. (motions in direction of bathroom)
I’ll be waiting, but don’t be long.”
POV Handsome Guy: Watches as she gracefully walks to the bathroom and turns once inside, offering him a last little peek at her flirtatious eyes as she peeks around the door while closing it.
Handsome Guy begins to pour himself another drink.
Meanwhile in the bathroom, Slim Woman struggles to get out of full-body-condom-suit-flab-filter-thingiemajigger, in order to surprise him in all her generous glory.
(45 minutes later)
Handsome Guy has fallen asleep from drinking too much whiskey and is snoring on the couch.
Slim Woman quietly walks over to him, naked, and gently nudges him…
He wakes and begins screaming at the top of his lungs.
Handsome Guy:
“OMG OMG OMG…who ARE you and what have you done with my date?! I’m calling the police!”
And the morale of this story is:
Lies, even if they seem like a good idea at the time…always catch up with you.
Think I’ll pass on ordering the full-body-condom-suit-flab-filter-thingiemajigger, at least for now.
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Filed under: Fabulous Fattitude , date, dating, dating nightmares, flab, girdles, lies
March 26, 2009 • 11:49 pm 0
Am I happy about it? Gee, I don’t know…would YOU be happy if YOUR boobs were being horrifyingly distorted by gravity, and because they were huge (thanks Mom), you had to wonder if you’d wake up tomorrow with them smacking you in the shins?
Seriously, I remember thinking when I was younger that I didn’t want to grow up to be like my parents. Afterall…I was going to be “kewl” (only back then, we spelled that “cool”). Yet here I am at the tender age of 45, grieving the loss of not only my perky boobies, but my perky mind, which has acquired many of Mom’s traits, first and foremost that of needing anti-depressants, and a lot of caffeine to even be able to remember my own name.
Yeah, I dont’ know if “enjoying it” is really part of the equation.
Filed under: Middle Aged Crazies , aging, boobs, gravity, mother
• 10:22 am 3
photo by Wonderlane
Most of what we do in life begins with a thought, a decision, and then an action. Granted, some things are ruthlessly thrust upon us not allowing any of the above. Those things, I think we all just stumble through, hoping we’ve got enough inner fortitude to somehow surf those unexpected waves and come out on the other side intact. But do you ever feel like you’ve made a conscious decision to do something and yet once you begin to act on that decision, it comes equipped with all of the unpredictable stress of those “unexpected waves” sort of things? Why is that? I had the thought, I made the decision, I took the action, and suddenly I feel like I’m not in control. What the hell?
I’ve read much more than a handful of blogs, and over the past year, I’ve never bothered to comment on most of them or make my presence known in any way. That wasn’t because I was trying to be mean, or that I didn’t care. These bloggers were (and truthfully, still are) so intimidating to me. Some of them are so ridiculously skilled at writing, that I feel altogether blessed and cursed to be reading them. Now, when I make a comment, I’m sure most of them have no clue how difficult and scary it is for me to leave my thoughts there, for those fantastic writers to read, and perhaps judge.
When I was very young, I had a sixth grade teacher named Miss McKinney. She gave us an assignment to write a story, a “novelette,” I believe she called it. I can’t remember, it was a very very long time ago. I wrote a suspense story called “Suite 800.” It was about a haunted hotel. In sixth grade, I remember it being very scary to even write it. But Miss McKinney loved it (or said she did) and encouraged me to continue writing. She told me she believed that I had discovered a previously hidden talent, and that it was very special.
As the years flew by, I continued to write. I wrote poetry that was published. I wrote songs that were not (I used to play guitar and piano). I wrote letters. I wrote journals. I wrote….all the time. By the time I was in college, I had found other skills that I had some inclination toward, and I majored in graphic design. Yeah, this was a strange choice considering that I had always wanted to be a writer. I can’t explain that decision. But to make a very long story a tiny bit shorter…writing began to fall by the wayside for me. After college I started a small business doing CD cover and ebook cover designs. I quit writing, for the most part.
There used to be so many things to write about. Honestly, you could have given me any topic or idea, and it would have streamed from my pen (pen, yes, it was a long time ago) into some semi-brilliant and beautiful thing. Now I’m almost half a century old, and really really want to write. Yet, I feel like the part of me that used to write so eloquently, with such passion and resolve, has somehow been crushed under the weight of just living and raising children, being married and working, and just spending so many years not paying attention to life outside of my own isolated bubble of existence.
At the point of tears I sit here typing, longing to find that part of myself again, and yet, she feels so far away, so disconnected from the woman that sits here today. I don’t know her any more. She’s gotten lost somewhere in the past; a past that was spent doing and being and fulfilling all kinds of other roles.
There are so many blogs in the blogosphere, all floating about, most unread by anyone other than their writer and perhaps a few close friends or family. I know that most people aren’t interested in reading what some 45 year old woman did today, or had for breakfast, or even necessarily her life’s “revelations.” What do I really have to contribute other than half a century of my own personal life and all of its details? I’m not a comedienne, like The Bloggess or Her Bad Mother, who is also ridiculously gifted at one line Tweets that make you spew coffee out of your nose. All I have to give…is me. And I want to be genuinely me. Yet, I don’t really know who that is anymore, so how can I share that with someone else? I’m pretty sure that no one wants to read the story of me rediscovering myself either. That just seems like it would be literary public masterbation. I don’t think that sounds very appealing either.
So to get back to the point I was trying to make in the first paragraph…I made this decision to blog. I’m blogging, right now, for me. But I’m not going to lie and say that I don’t care if anyone reads it. Of course I do. I think that most everyone that has a blog that they work on, wants people to read it, wants comments, wants that feeling of involvement with a community of other writers and readers, and I love to read other peoples’ blogs. I just love it. I know I need to comment more often, because I know that those comments are precious to a writer, and I’ve begun to do that. But in this state of blogging “infancy,” I have to say that I feel very lost, very alone, and very hungry to just write, whether those writings are read or not, I can’t determine. I just know…I must write.
The wave is cresting behind me…
I hope I can ride it out.
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Filed under: Blogosphere , blogging, dreams, goals, identity
March 25, 2009 • 10:24 pm 1
Our children are amazing teachers.
My son, Levi, has been such a catalyst in my life so very many times, and I’m quite sure that he doesn’t know that little tidbit of information. It might be best if that stays our little secret. I wouldn’t want him to have any more “dirt” on his momma. Generally, parents are teachers, and I do think that I taught my son a few things, although probably not always good things. At the same time, I think we often forget how much we can learn from our children. Levi had a rough beginning to his year, and it got me to thinking about actions, consequences, and being pro-active rather than just letting life happen to you.
I haven’t been active at blogging for quite some time now. It’s not that my life was without things to blog about, it’s just that my head has not been in the blogosphere enough to read or write. I’ve barely been able to simply think. But life has seasons, and it’s been a long winter. In the past my blog entries have been predominantly about things that have inspired or angered me. They were topics that often caused me to reflect on my life, my actions, and reactions. This is where the “ferocious dust bunnies” come into play.
Dust bunnies. We’ve all had them. They seem innocuous enough, particularly when they’re not blatantly obvious and they’re just hiding somewhere under the bed. They’re easy to forget about…well…at least for me. Anyone that knows me very well knows that I’m not the tidiest of people. I like housecleaning almost as much as I like a root canal….almost. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I love the end result. I just don’t love the process. But cleaning, both houses and lives, is a needful thing, and eventually I’ll end up having to suck it up and just do it (on both fronts).
Dust bunnies are a funny thing. As a metaphor, they’re both a bit gross, and a bit cute. I guess it depends on how you look at them. Real dust bunnies (you know, the kind that actually make homes under your literal bed) can be quite filthy. They can have mites and other non-cute things in them. Ewwww. On the other hand, someone somewhere along the way called them “bunnies” because they can resemble fluffy little…well…bunnies. And there’s nothing about a bunny that isn’t pretty goshdern cute. I should know, I used to have five Holland Lop rabbits as pets. My house was FULL of bunnies back then (both the dusty kind, and the furry, floppy-earred kind).
My blog has developed the not so cute kind of virtual dust bunnies. I know this because after this long “winter” I came back and “looked under the bed.” It’s time to sweep them out and start over. So what does that mean for this weblog? It means there’s going to be a lot more going on here! It means that I’ve re-discovered and re-connected with purpose and meaning, and it means that I want to be part of something bigger than myself, a community of dedicated writers. It means I’m making a commitment to deal with dust bunnies, both the “ewww gross” kind and the cute and cuddly caricature kind. I hope you’ll join in.
Filed under: Blogosphere, Children , Children, healing, life lessons, starting over
