I'm sorry that I'm not a puzzle
Or a cryptic and strange secret code
I guess that I made it too easy
When I offered warmth when you liked cold
It's true I'm not so formulaic
And don't know a lot about clues
I'm too busy feeling what's inside
To recall any absolute truths
You probably could say I'm a fool
For Believing and Wishing on stars
I guess there's a lot more to distance
Than packing for light-years to Mars
I never thought I had the answers
But I figured I'd wing it and try
I honestly didn't expect that I
Wasn't worth five minutes of your precious time
Well here I go burning more bridges
But it's my talent or so I've been told
Don't apologize, there's nothing to forgive, mea culpa
It's just my heart is a wide open road.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Uppity Fatty
I laugh when I hear 'conventionally attractive' and 'normal' because it's like trying to nail jello to a wall when you ask someone to define what those terms mean. Recently I heard a woman who weighs over 350 lbs. proclaim she has 'some thin privilege' because of her height (she's amazonian) and her activity level the description of which left me exhausted. How do we come up with these terms and why do we continue to use them since they seem to change direction with the wind?
When I was a kid and used to read Mad Magazine, one of my favorite recurring sections was the inside back page where one had to fold twice to get point 'A' to meet point 'B' and it would give a visual representation of whatever the joke was. In one most relative to my point, was how the standards of beauty change over time, so the original image was of a woman who was pleasant looking with regular features, bright smile, eyes and shiny hair and once folded, the visage now showed a person with a gaunt face covered in tattoos, piercings, impressively garish scars and the like with the heading, The Future Face of Beauty. The sad and scary thing is that face does in many eyes represent the face of beauty to many people and the pleasant original face is now often considered boring, bland and passe'.It's not so dismaying that the former is embraced but that the latter has been discarded and found lacking.
I suppose I could come up with a pie chart and some statistical trends that occur (and interestingly ebb and flow) to support my thoughts but that's what your fingers and Google search is for so go knock yourself out. If you want facts or factoids or things that are baloney but are stated with such emphasis and authority that they must be true, then Wikipedia is the one for you because as you already may have guessed:
Everything you read on the internet is true ~ Thomas Jefferson
At this point I probably have to also add my own disclaimers. I have 'beauty privilege' 'mouthy broad privilege' and 'are you gonna eat that cake or what privilege' because I get away with a lot that being a fat person, by conventional standards, I shouldn't be. Some say it's my charm. Some say it's my chutzpah. I'd like to think that nobody puts this baby into a corner because there isn't a corner big enough for this baby.
One thing I don't lack is self-esteem. Due to a recent cover of Village Voice profiling a couple (among others--SHOUT OUT TO MY MY GIRL 'CHARLOTTE'), one of whom was an FA (Fat Admirer or Guy Who Likes Fat Chicks) and the other, a stunning fat webmodel, both of whom I sorta kinda know in an interwebzy way, we (fatties and the ones who love us) are getting a lot of attention both from fellow fatties joining in (MY PEOPLE!) to haters admonishing that we're all gonna die of teh dethfatz. We tend to laugh at the doomsayers who also like to throw out the 'fat girls are easy' line---Every guy who never got me only wishes this, the 'fat girls will go out with anyone because there's less of a pool to choose from'--which is why Spouse has to beat them off with a baseball bat when they approach me IN FRONT OF HIM, and 'Fat people are lazy slobs who've given up on life' which um....there isn't enough bandwidth to address this one.
You don't have to like me. You don't have to like my fat. But I'm a human being same as you and you're no better than me. Oh and you over there, you little chubster who says, 'Well, at least I'm not THAT fat or I can always pull back'--you're no better either. You're one of us. One of us. One of us. You're making it worse for everyone and everyone includes you, I promise you it will come back and bite you in the ass.
And while you can cowardly hide behind the anonymity of the internet, and try to shame me because not only am I not ashamed but also have the audacity to be arrogant and say, 'No, you don't get it. I wouldn't fuck YOU.' you might want to do two things. First, look in the mirror. Then think about what you say when you're out in public spouting your shit and pseudo facts because there are a lot more of me than there are of you. We're not only getting fatter. We're multiplying and we're not going away.
When I was a kid and used to read Mad Magazine, one of my favorite recurring sections was the inside back page where one had to fold twice to get point 'A' to meet point 'B' and it would give a visual representation of whatever the joke was. In one most relative to my point, was how the standards of beauty change over time, so the original image was of a woman who was pleasant looking with regular features, bright smile, eyes and shiny hair and once folded, the visage now showed a person with a gaunt face covered in tattoos, piercings, impressively garish scars and the like with the heading, The Future Face of Beauty. The sad and scary thing is that face does in many eyes represent the face of beauty to many people and the pleasant original face is now often considered boring, bland and passe'.It's not so dismaying that the former is embraced but that the latter has been discarded and found lacking.
I suppose I could come up with a pie chart and some statistical trends that occur (and interestingly ebb and flow) to support my thoughts but that's what your fingers and Google search is for so go knock yourself out. If you want facts or factoids or things that are baloney but are stated with such emphasis and authority that they must be true, then Wikipedia is the one for you because as you already may have guessed:
Everything you read on the internet is true ~ Thomas Jefferson
At this point I probably have to also add my own disclaimers. I have 'beauty privilege' 'mouthy broad privilege' and 'are you gonna eat that cake or what privilege' because I get away with a lot that being a fat person, by conventional standards, I shouldn't be. Some say it's my charm. Some say it's my chutzpah. I'd like to think that nobody puts this baby into a corner because there isn't a corner big enough for this baby.
One thing I don't lack is self-esteem. Due to a recent cover of Village Voice profiling a couple (among others--SHOUT OUT TO MY MY GIRL 'CHARLOTTE'), one of whom was an FA (Fat Admirer or Guy Who Likes Fat Chicks) and the other, a stunning fat webmodel, both of whom I sorta kinda know in an interwebzy way, we (fatties and the ones who love us) are getting a lot of attention both from fellow fatties joining in (MY PEOPLE!) to haters admonishing that we're all gonna die of teh dethfatz. We tend to laugh at the doomsayers who also like to throw out the 'fat girls are easy' line---Every guy who never got me only wishes this, the 'fat girls will go out with anyone because there's less of a pool to choose from'--which is why Spouse has to beat them off with a baseball bat when they approach me IN FRONT OF HIM, and 'Fat people are lazy slobs who've given up on life' which um....there isn't enough bandwidth to address this one.
You don't have to like me. You don't have to like my fat. But I'm a human being same as you and you're no better than me. Oh and you over there, you little chubster who says, 'Well, at least I'm not THAT fat or I can always pull back'--you're no better either. You're one of us. One of us. One of us. You're making it worse for everyone and everyone includes you, I promise you it will come back and bite you in the ass.
And while you can cowardly hide behind the anonymity of the internet, and try to shame me because not only am I not ashamed but also have the audacity to be arrogant and say, 'No, you don't get it. I wouldn't fuck YOU.' you might want to do two things. First, look in the mirror. Then think about what you say when you're out in public spouting your shit and pseudo facts because there are a lot more of me than there are of you. We're not only getting fatter. We're multiplying and we're not going away.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Run Llama Run!!!
Every woman has had a million (hyperbole thy name is Elaine) moments of internal strife and struggle when she stands in front of her closet and says in all sincerity, 'I have nothing to wear.' If that woman is me, she will also stomp her foot and might possibly fling the nearest pillow for full diva effect because I take my melodramatic moments quite seriously.( Owing it to my adoring public of one; a small black calico who is more interesting in licking her ass than my performances. Critics can be so brutal. Still the show must go on.)
Glorious spring is here and I can already smell summer in the air, which in the country is actually quite pleasant although sometimes the fragrance from the prizewinning llama farm just down the road can get a little ripe. I do remind myself that the owner of aforementioned farm is also a philanthropist and conservationist and sells that llama hair (it's hair, not fur) and milk for a fortune and that he's also a sentimental crazy old coot as evidenced by the fact that he will only sell his llamas in pairs (because they get lonely and who wants a lonely llama) after a strenuous and lengthy adoption process in which there's a distinct possibility you may not even be approved. And for the love of God, do NOT insult his devilled eggs which are lovely dyed pink in beet juice by his manservant and secret lover, Teddy.
I get to see the llamas for free because he throws an open house once a year to the public but also a separate neighbors' get-together on the veranda (I shit you not) where we sip champagne with berries and eat organic (grown in his own garden, fertilized by llama poo) tomato and llama mozzarella appetizers while perusing pics of llamas and gossiping about that asshole who keeps building houses where the deck bannister is built into a kitchen window which renders it impossible to open or the time the deck support beam stopped 18 inches ABOVE ground. We wondered aloud who would buy such a house, not realizing the new owner was sitting among us. Awkward and here's your welcome basket.
I don't need a llama because some kid with too much time on his hands keeps going back to the private road none of us are allowed to use unless a state of emergency is called because evidently prizewinning llamas are in such demand that more than once very bad people have pulled up to the back gate of the farm with a tractor trailer and stolen some of the beloved camelids.
The boy himself doesn't want to steal them, though. He just likes to open the gate and let them run free sometimes so it isn't an unusual sight for me to see from my patio door one munching on a white pine in the woods behind my house. I call the philanthropist's secretary, she calls one of the stable boys, llama gets apprehended, I get a lovely flower arrangement (and depending on the time of year, a half ton of organic zucchini) and am ensured another invitation to the next neighbors' wine and cheese party.
We ooh and ahh during the tours and at the array of ribbons on the stalls and doors and are encouraged to take as many prints of photos as we'd like. We also get little souvenir bags of llama silk, which I'm told is worth a lot of money and I ponder how much silk it would take to make me something to wear to this First Holy Communion my sister-in-law's sister's kid is celebrating tomorrow.
I find something new and lovely with the tags still on and feel triumphant and do a little happy dance around the room while Wonton enthusiastically chews on one of the ribbons I never throw out but tie to the drawer pulls of my antique dresser because I think it looks so shabby chic but since her arrival now just appears shabby.
Spouse comments on this frequently which is why I will NEVER remove the ribbons if only to irritate his decorative sensibilities which extend mostly to wondering aloud if particleboard is an endangered wood species and naugahyde no longer exists because wild herds of naugas were hunted into extinction in the 70's.
I don't speculate on his obsession to recreate a casino in the basement (five slot machines and counting) so I dismiss his opinion on such matters with impunity.
The top/tunic is flow-y and I've found the perfect pair of faux olivine earrings to go with it (thank you Heidi Daus and HSN) but it is an off-the-shoulder top and it's too late for me to find a strapless bra in my size which is not 'plus' or 'queen' but 'empress of the universe' and therefore fittingly rare, but I vaguely recall owning one that not only is exactly what the doctor ordered BUT doesn't make me feel like I'm going to spill over and do a burlesque number every time I reach for my martini.
Now another source of contention is that I have a lot of clothes. No, really. I used to model for a short time (the putting the clothes ON, type of model) and was fortunate enough to work for and collaborate with some great designers and their advice (and perks) is priceless but THAT comes with a price; there are three closets in the room and two large dressers and except for two drawers for Spouse' tees, boxers, socks and jeans, they're all mine. There is also a large dresser in the bathroom filled only with my panties because I have a very slight lingerie fetish.
And I can't find that bra.
Okay I have other bras I can wear. One is nude and convertible but I can't find the damn extender and the clips to switch the straps always come undone at the most inopportune time, like when I'm curtsying before the Queen, so....pass. Then there's a couple that I could technically wear while tucking in the straps, because they are pretty supportive but they're all lace and will affect the appearance of the top I'm wearing so, although quite beautiful and the perfectly appropriately matchy-matchy shades....no to them too and now I'm getting desperate. Oh damn, I should have followed Ginny's advice and just bought a smaller one with boning and just mofo'd the hell out of it with extenders but I'm so freakin stubborn. SHIT.
And then....while I'm hopping from foot to foot because suddenly I have to pee but am too willful to give up my search, I reach into the back of a drawer and not only pull out the equivalent of winning the lottery (okay, okay, a free scratch-off ticket) but the little bag containing ALL the convertible accessories and I HAVE SCORED!!!!!! And I forgot because it's been so long but it's silk, like....like....llama hair...awwww...
I look for Wonton's approval to share my success but she's left the room which is unusual because of our four cats, she is MY shadow, MY confidante, MY furkid as opposed to the other three who only deign me to live in THEIR house with Spouse. She thinks they're all peasants so I'm quite content to be beloved by her only, because of her impeccable taste. My outfit for tomorrow properly assembled I walk downstairs in search of a Diet Dr. Pepper and my cat.
Evidently there is a union meeting and I wasn't invited to serve donuts and coffee. All four have come to a temporary truce and are sitting shoulder to shoulder at the patio door. Because it's a warm breezy day, it's open to the screen and four tails are twitching in unison, four rumps are hitching for a pounce. I look for the squirrel who frequently comes to visit them at the door and burst into laughter.
There's a llama on my deck.
Glorious spring is here and I can already smell summer in the air, which in the country is actually quite pleasant although sometimes the fragrance from the prizewinning llama farm just down the road can get a little ripe. I do remind myself that the owner of aforementioned farm is also a philanthropist and conservationist and sells that llama hair (it's hair, not fur) and milk for a fortune and that he's also a sentimental crazy old coot as evidenced by the fact that he will only sell his llamas in pairs (because they get lonely and who wants a lonely llama) after a strenuous and lengthy adoption process in which there's a distinct possibility you may not even be approved. And for the love of God, do NOT insult his devilled eggs which are lovely dyed pink in beet juice by his manservant and secret lover, Teddy.
I get to see the llamas for free because he throws an open house once a year to the public but also a separate neighbors' get-together on the veranda (I shit you not) where we sip champagne with berries and eat organic (grown in his own garden, fertilized by llama poo) tomato and llama mozzarella appetizers while perusing pics of llamas and gossiping about that asshole who keeps building houses where the deck bannister is built into a kitchen window which renders it impossible to open or the time the deck support beam stopped 18 inches ABOVE ground. We wondered aloud who would buy such a house, not realizing the new owner was sitting among us. Awkward and here's your welcome basket.
I don't need a llama because some kid with too much time on his hands keeps going back to the private road none of us are allowed to use unless a state of emergency is called because evidently prizewinning llamas are in such demand that more than once very bad people have pulled up to the back gate of the farm with a tractor trailer and stolen some of the beloved camelids.
The boy himself doesn't want to steal them, though. He just likes to open the gate and let them run free sometimes so it isn't an unusual sight for me to see from my patio door one munching on a white pine in the woods behind my house. I call the philanthropist's secretary, she calls one of the stable boys, llama gets apprehended, I get a lovely flower arrangement (and depending on the time of year, a half ton of organic zucchini) and am ensured another invitation to the next neighbors' wine and cheese party.
We ooh and ahh during the tours and at the array of ribbons on the stalls and doors and are encouraged to take as many prints of photos as we'd like. We also get little souvenir bags of llama silk, which I'm told is worth a lot of money and I ponder how much silk it would take to make me something to wear to this First Holy Communion my sister-in-law's sister's kid is celebrating tomorrow.
I find something new and lovely with the tags still on and feel triumphant and do a little happy dance around the room while Wonton enthusiastically chews on one of the ribbons I never throw out but tie to the drawer pulls of my antique dresser because I think it looks so shabby chic but since her arrival now just appears shabby.
Spouse comments on this frequently which is why I will NEVER remove the ribbons if only to irritate his decorative sensibilities which extend mostly to wondering aloud if particleboard is an endangered wood species and naugahyde no longer exists because wild herds of naugas were hunted into extinction in the 70's.
I don't speculate on his obsession to recreate a casino in the basement (five slot machines and counting) so I dismiss his opinion on such matters with impunity.
The top/tunic is flow-y and I've found the perfect pair of faux olivine earrings to go with it (thank you Heidi Daus and HSN) but it is an off-the-shoulder top and it's too late for me to find a strapless bra in my size which is not 'plus' or 'queen' but 'empress of the universe' and therefore fittingly rare, but I vaguely recall owning one that not only is exactly what the doctor ordered BUT doesn't make me feel like I'm going to spill over and do a burlesque number every time I reach for my martini.
Now another source of contention is that I have a lot of clothes. No, really. I used to model for a short time (the putting the clothes ON, type of model) and was fortunate enough to work for and collaborate with some great designers and their advice (and perks) is priceless but THAT comes with a price; there are three closets in the room and two large dressers and except for two drawers for Spouse' tees, boxers, socks and jeans, they're all mine. There is also a large dresser in the bathroom filled only with my panties because I have a very slight lingerie fetish.
And I can't find that bra.
Okay I have other bras I can wear. One is nude and convertible but I can't find the damn extender and the clips to switch the straps always come undone at the most inopportune time, like when I'm curtsying before the Queen, so....pass. Then there's a couple that I could technically wear while tucking in the straps, because they are pretty supportive but they're all lace and will affect the appearance of the top I'm wearing so, although quite beautiful and the perfectly appropriately matchy-matchy shades....no to them too and now I'm getting desperate. Oh damn, I should have followed Ginny's advice and just bought a smaller one with boning and just mofo'd the hell out of it with extenders but I'm so freakin stubborn. SHIT.
And then....while I'm hopping from foot to foot because suddenly I have to pee but am too willful to give up my search, I reach into the back of a drawer and not only pull out the equivalent of winning the lottery (okay, okay, a free scratch-off ticket) but the little bag containing ALL the convertible accessories and I HAVE SCORED!!!!!! And I forgot because it's been so long but it's silk, like....like....llama hair...awwww...
I look for Wonton's approval to share my success but she's left the room which is unusual because of our four cats, she is MY shadow, MY confidante, MY furkid as opposed to the other three who only deign me to live in THEIR house with Spouse. She thinks they're all peasants so I'm quite content to be beloved by her only, because of her impeccable taste. My outfit for tomorrow properly assembled I walk downstairs in search of a Diet Dr. Pepper and my cat.
Evidently there is a union meeting and I wasn't invited to serve donuts and coffee. All four have come to a temporary truce and are sitting shoulder to shoulder at the patio door. Because it's a warm breezy day, it's open to the screen and four tails are twitching in unison, four rumps are hitching for a pounce. I look for the squirrel who frequently comes to visit them at the door and burst into laughter.
There's a llama on my deck.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Let Me Not Forget
There are moments in life that are so branded into our psyches that there's no need to tie a mental string around one's finger. Like the firsts; first time I tied my shoes, first time I rode my bike without training wheels, first day of school, first pet, first A+, first time I stood up to a bully, first time my performance earned applause, first crush, first kiss, first raise, first car, the list is long because my memory is legend but also because I'm hopelessly romantic and schmaltzy sentimental.
But then there are those times that I've been hit by such an overwhelming wave of emotion and feeling that I forget who, what, when, where and why and knew in the depths of my bottomless soul that I needed to mark the moment lest I forget amidst the noise of my beating thrumming heart. And in truth, the fear of what could go wrong.
Some of it I've shared with you, gentle readers, here, there and everywhere, like the time I was kissed the way I was born to be kissed. Like Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, I waited for what seemed like a lifetime for that kiss and was taken breathlessly by surprise when it happened but I clearly recall saying in my heart as he held me in his arms, 'Let me not forget this moment, ever' a plea, a supplication to a higher being perhaps that in hours of need that I could visit upon that moment and remember for a few moments I was deeply wanted and needed and that moment was full of possibility. That I remain good friends with this man fifteen years later is a testimony to how time (for me at least) tends to filter and soften the focus of pain and disappointment and blur the memories to bittersweet treasures. That his hands shake when we see each other, still, even now, too is a treasure, a little pearl.
Speaking of pearls, they are a personal icon. The tiniest innocuous irritant makes its way into the imperious impervious lip of an oyster in an endless ocean full of countless grains of sand and countless oysters. They find each other or perhaps the current ebb and flow of life throws them together but either way the grain of sand rests and nestles in the heart of the oyster. No matter how much it tries, the oyster cannot expel the little interloper so it releases nacre to cover the grain of sand in layer after layer after layer until a pearl is formed. A precious natural jewel created from something so relentlessly even ruthlessly rejected. Oh how could I not relate? How could I not adore such irony? How could it not be......me?
Then there was the time I though God was lost to me. That we would be strangers, that I wasn't good enough and I would be a spiritual orphan because I couldn't fit into the box of 'should be' and couldn't reconcile that any intelligent God would expect me to suspend logic to believe and follow Him. One day, I joined a gathering of people and after years of wondering if it was possible, I felt a spiritual awakening. One night after many nights of prayer and meditation both on my own and with my friends, I felt as if a river was rushing and bubbling through my entire body and as I held the hands of my friends on either side, they felt it too and I said aloud, 'Let me not forget, ever, please oh please'...again a prayer.....and the tears on my cheeks even now are proof that whether you believe or not, I know that *I* felt it and needed it for whatever reason and I fully embraced it and do now. Oh, I do believe, I do believe as the Cowardly Lion said.
I am blessed. I have had illuminating moments that were joyful and some that were agonizing and perhaps because I AM so stubborn and willful I had to experience them both to learn. So many lessons learned and so many more to come. So many answers give rise to so many more questions and I stand in awe and amazement and wonder of it all. That I get one go-round on this beautiful earth is blessing enough. That I share it with so many amazing people and experiences is the cherry on the cake.
Some more Let Me Not Forget moments:
When my late mother visited me on the day of my sister's funeral to tell me she was now safe and no one could hurt her again.
When I knew I no longer loved someone but it wasn't my fault. I really had done all I could. And I was able to and did forgive him. And the one after him too.
When I was both devastated and relieved that the person I thought was my soul mate, wasn't.
When my dearest friend who lost everything she loved most still loved me and held me when I lost everything.
When a group of beloved friends had to repeatedly remind me who I was and did not let go until it sunk in.
When I poured out my heart to someone and he ran away and I never expected it.
When I poured out my heart to someone and he still didn't run away even though I fully expected it.
When a friend told me the brutal truth and I was ready to accept and embrace it.
When I finally believed it after denying it for years that I am amazing and there's nothing wrong with believing it.
When I was ready to give love a chance again in spite of seemingly insurmountable odds.
When I was ready to breath and stand on my own two feet.
When I was ready to start writing again.
Let me not forget.
But then there are those times that I've been hit by such an overwhelming wave of emotion and feeling that I forget who, what, when, where and why and knew in the depths of my bottomless soul that I needed to mark the moment lest I forget amidst the noise of my beating thrumming heart. And in truth, the fear of what could go wrong.
Some of it I've shared with you, gentle readers, here, there and everywhere, like the time I was kissed the way I was born to be kissed. Like Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, I waited for what seemed like a lifetime for that kiss and was taken breathlessly by surprise when it happened but I clearly recall saying in my heart as he held me in his arms, 'Let me not forget this moment, ever' a plea, a supplication to a higher being perhaps that in hours of need that I could visit upon that moment and remember for a few moments I was deeply wanted and needed and that moment was full of possibility. That I remain good friends with this man fifteen years later is a testimony to how time (for me at least) tends to filter and soften the focus of pain and disappointment and blur the memories to bittersweet treasures. That his hands shake when we see each other, still, even now, too is a treasure, a little pearl.
Speaking of pearls, they are a personal icon. The tiniest innocuous irritant makes its way into the imperious impervious lip of an oyster in an endless ocean full of countless grains of sand and countless oysters. They find each other or perhaps the current ebb and flow of life throws them together but either way the grain of sand rests and nestles in the heart of the oyster. No matter how much it tries, the oyster cannot expel the little interloper so it releases nacre to cover the grain of sand in layer after layer after layer until a pearl is formed. A precious natural jewel created from something so relentlessly even ruthlessly rejected. Oh how could I not relate? How could I not adore such irony? How could it not be......me?
Then there was the time I though God was lost to me. That we would be strangers, that I wasn't good enough and I would be a spiritual orphan because I couldn't fit into the box of 'should be' and couldn't reconcile that any intelligent God would expect me to suspend logic to believe and follow Him. One day, I joined a gathering of people and after years of wondering if it was possible, I felt a spiritual awakening. One night after many nights of prayer and meditation both on my own and with my friends, I felt as if a river was rushing and bubbling through my entire body and as I held the hands of my friends on either side, they felt it too and I said aloud, 'Let me not forget, ever, please oh please'...again a prayer.....and the tears on my cheeks even now are proof that whether you believe or not, I know that *I* felt it and needed it for whatever reason and I fully embraced it and do now. Oh, I do believe, I do believe as the Cowardly Lion said.
I am blessed. I have had illuminating moments that were joyful and some that were agonizing and perhaps because I AM so stubborn and willful I had to experience them both to learn. So many lessons learned and so many more to come. So many answers give rise to so many more questions and I stand in awe and amazement and wonder of it all. That I get one go-round on this beautiful earth is blessing enough. That I share it with so many amazing people and experiences is the cherry on the cake.
Some more Let Me Not Forget moments:
When my late mother visited me on the day of my sister's funeral to tell me she was now safe and no one could hurt her again.
When I knew I no longer loved someone but it wasn't my fault. I really had done all I could. And I was able to and did forgive him. And the one after him too.
When I was both devastated and relieved that the person I thought was my soul mate, wasn't.
When my dearest friend who lost everything she loved most still loved me and held me when I lost everything.
When a group of beloved friends had to repeatedly remind me who I was and did not let go until it sunk in.
When I poured out my heart to someone and he ran away and I never expected it.
When I poured out my heart to someone and he still didn't run away even though I fully expected it.
When a friend told me the brutal truth and I was ready to accept and embrace it.
When I finally believed it after denying it for years that I am amazing and there's nothing wrong with believing it.
When I was ready to give love a chance again in spite of seemingly insurmountable odds.
When I was ready to breath and stand on my own two feet.
When I was ready to start writing again.
Let me not forget.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Crying over Spilt Chocolate
In the space of less than seven years, I have lost half of my family; my beautiful mother and only sister Lisa and my sweet baby brother Donny. My father sees no reason to celebrate or observe any holiday today and I can't blame him because the loss of my brother was so recent, but I am deeply grateful for my many blessings, most especially, that I still have him and my brother David, my continuing improving health, the love and affection of friends near and far and even a couple of men who I still don't understand why they put up with me.
Today talking with David, we both mentioned simultaneously that it's 'just us' and I dissolved in tears. I don't like to dwell or wallow and don't want pity but I ache for what I've lost.
I do know that there is a future for me and a bright one at that which I anticipate with the same relish I have for the hollow chocolate bunny whose head I'm currently bashing in. Like the bunny, today is bittersweet.
Today talking with David, we both mentioned simultaneously that it's 'just us' and I dissolved in tears. I don't like to dwell or wallow and don't want pity but I ache for what I've lost.
I do know that there is a future for me and a bright one at that which I anticipate with the same relish I have for the hollow chocolate bunny whose head I'm currently bashing in. Like the bunny, today is bittersweet.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Bomb
When children have nothing to do they'll conjure up anything to entertain themselves soon after discovering stating aloud that they're bored will earn them two days cleaning a garage that has accumulated 24 years of unwanted stuff that somehow escaped eviction. Sometimes this isn't a total failure; it's amazing the things one can do with 11 cans of used lead paint and a rusty hacksaw not to mention 8 stale packs of Winstons my grandfather used to hide in the drop ceiling when he would run downstairs every twenty minutes to 'check on the boiler.' Don't ask me about the razor blades or the matches, please, but my brothers and I do have some interesting scars.
My house was the one on the street with all the kids inside, outside, everywhere, always. My parents put up with it with good humor mostly because at least they knew where WE were, except maybe at dinnertime when we descended on the kitchen like Mongolian hordes. When we weren't playing wolf-pack out on the street until the lights came on signaling it was time to go home or at least plotingt the next slumber party, we were devising more ways to maim and disfigure each other.
My sister being the youngest and therefore more fragile than the rest of us peasants (I had demonstrated my ineptitude at keeping her in once piece by shattering her collarbone in an unfortunate jungle gym accident), spent much of her time with my mother, shopping or on errands, so I the lone girl, would play with my brothers and my uncle, John.
John was my worst nightmare. He was what people back then called a 'change of life' baby as in, 'Ooops...heh heh..I thought I was too old to get preggers but GUESS WHAT HONEY?' so when my mother and father were dating, my grandmother was foisting her toddler on them to kill two bird with one stone--get some free time away from a screaming snot nosed angel and said cherub with stinky cloth diapers and rubber pants would be the best birth control chaperone one could ever hope for only that didn't work that well because somehow I was born six months after the wedding. So much for precautions.
Grandma was already tired and Mom had us like stair-steps; four one after the other so what was one more? The thing was though...I was technically the oldest of MY PARENTS' children but because John entered the mix, he was the oldest of the group. Because he pulled the YOU'RE NOT MY REAL MOM card on her every change he got, he was able to torture me without restraint and did so gleefully. His pulling rank made Lord of the Flies look like a lemonade stand in comparison and my grandmother was no better. She owned our house and if John convinced her we were trying to decapitate him, she'd get all nasty with my mother who'd get medieval on our asses. I learned to independently and stealthily fight boys pretty young and damned effectively as a result. Bones were broken. None were my own.
One rainy afternoon we were killing each other over the Colecovision controls and screaming over the proper way to blow on the cartridges to get supreme effectiveness. DON'T SPIT YOU PIG! when one of thought up a new war game. Bomb.
My brothers ran into their secret lab errr...bedroom which in some states should have been closed down by the EPA and CDC but because we were in New Jersey, they were able to obtain access, and searched for every sock that had lost its match. They quit counting after about 600 and we set out to the task of stuffing balls of socks into a giant misshapen lump. This would serve as our ball as our eavesdropping mom had kiboshed our first idea of a brick wrapped in a pillowcase. I still don't know what her problem was. I figured they should have stopped at me anyway and would be doing the human race a favor by allowing us our own Darwin Awards competition but.....she was the adult and out of cigarettes and chasing my sister around so, "Keep quiet and don't bother me unless you're bleeding or something is on fire."
We took that as a direct challenge. She threw down the gauntlet. It was our honor we had to defend.
The game of Bomb was simple. Divide the living room into two halves. Push all furniture to the walls and make a low wall of whatever might pass for sandbags in foxholes to approximate the terrifying exhiliaration of impending death. We used down pillows, couch cushions, misappropriated rolls of Bounty towels, and when the going got tough, my sister's mangy stuffed dog, Scroungy.
Then we divided ourselves into teams. John was the bully and always a team captain. Sometimes he chose wiry Donny for maneuverability, sometimes he chose muscular David for sheer ruthlessness. By default and my big mouth, I was the other team captain and got whoever was sniveling that he wasn't picked, for John's team.
A countdown began. If the game was short, we started at twenty. We all counted off solemnly, steadily, chanting 17.....16.....15.....14.... lobbing our ersatz ball at and over the head of each other scrabbling around on our knees because standing was not allowed and other than the count, speaking wasn't either. Grunts and groans were though, and an occasional screams should we nearly brain ourselves on the corner of the coffee table but the game MUST NOT STOP until the count was over and whoever had the bomb on their side was dead replete with as many blowing up sounds as we could muster. I must say we were very good at explosive sound effects. I also recall there was a lot of spitting when we attempted machine gun fire.
Many days my mom would walk into the den and find us strewn around the floor like so many corpses. We even practiced not breathing but she always faked us out by reanimating us with, "Okay, who wants a snack?"
There are no atheists in foxholes, and evidently no Hostess Cupcakes either.
My house was the one on the street with all the kids inside, outside, everywhere, always. My parents put up with it with good humor mostly because at least they knew where WE were, except maybe at dinnertime when we descended on the kitchen like Mongolian hordes. When we weren't playing wolf-pack out on the street until the lights came on signaling it was time to go home or at least plotingt the next slumber party, we were devising more ways to maim and disfigure each other.
My sister being the youngest and therefore more fragile than the rest of us peasants (I had demonstrated my ineptitude at keeping her in once piece by shattering her collarbone in an unfortunate jungle gym accident), spent much of her time with my mother, shopping or on errands, so I the lone girl, would play with my brothers and my uncle, John.
John was my worst nightmare. He was what people back then called a 'change of life' baby as in, 'Ooops...heh heh..I thought I was too old to get preggers but GUESS WHAT HONEY?' so when my mother and father were dating, my grandmother was foisting her toddler on them to kill two bird with one stone--get some free time away from a screaming snot nosed angel and said cherub with stinky cloth diapers and rubber pants would be the best birth control chaperone one could ever hope for only that didn't work that well because somehow I was born six months after the wedding. So much for precautions.
Grandma was already tired and Mom had us like stair-steps; four one after the other so what was one more? The thing was though...I was technically the oldest of MY PARENTS' children but because John entered the mix, he was the oldest of the group. Because he pulled the YOU'RE NOT MY REAL MOM card on her every change he got, he was able to torture me without restraint and did so gleefully. His pulling rank made Lord of the Flies look like a lemonade stand in comparison and my grandmother was no better. She owned our house and if John convinced her we were trying to decapitate him, she'd get all nasty with my mother who'd get medieval on our asses. I learned to independently and stealthily fight boys pretty young and damned effectively as a result. Bones were broken. None were my own.
One rainy afternoon we were killing each other over the Colecovision controls and screaming over the proper way to blow on the cartridges to get supreme effectiveness. DON'T SPIT YOU PIG! when one of thought up a new war game. Bomb.
My brothers ran into their secret lab errr...bedroom which in some states should have been closed down by the EPA and CDC but because we were in New Jersey, they were able to obtain access, and searched for every sock that had lost its match. They quit counting after about 600 and we set out to the task of stuffing balls of socks into a giant misshapen lump. This would serve as our ball as our eavesdropping mom had kiboshed our first idea of a brick wrapped in a pillowcase. I still don't know what her problem was. I figured they should have stopped at me anyway and would be doing the human race a favor by allowing us our own Darwin Awards competition but.....she was the adult and out of cigarettes and chasing my sister around so, "Keep quiet and don't bother me unless you're bleeding or something is on fire."
We took that as a direct challenge. She threw down the gauntlet. It was our honor we had to defend.
The game of Bomb was simple. Divide the living room into two halves. Push all furniture to the walls and make a low wall of whatever might pass for sandbags in foxholes to approximate the terrifying exhiliaration of impending death. We used down pillows, couch cushions, misappropriated rolls of Bounty towels, and when the going got tough, my sister's mangy stuffed dog, Scroungy.
Then we divided ourselves into teams. John was the bully and always a team captain. Sometimes he chose wiry Donny for maneuverability, sometimes he chose muscular David for sheer ruthlessness. By default and my big mouth, I was the other team captain and got whoever was sniveling that he wasn't picked, for John's team.
A countdown began. If the game was short, we started at twenty. We all counted off solemnly, steadily, chanting 17.....16.....15.....14.... lobbing our ersatz ball at and over the head of each other scrabbling around on our knees because standing was not allowed and other than the count, speaking wasn't either. Grunts and groans were though, and an occasional screams should we nearly brain ourselves on the corner of the coffee table but the game MUST NOT STOP until the count was over and whoever had the bomb on their side was dead replete with as many blowing up sounds as we could muster. I must say we were very good at explosive sound effects. I also recall there was a lot of spitting when we attempted machine gun fire.
Many days my mom would walk into the den and find us strewn around the floor like so many corpses. We even practiced not breathing but she always faked us out by reanimating us with, "Okay, who wants a snack?"
There are no atheists in foxholes, and evidently no Hostess Cupcakes either.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Losing My Religion
There are many people who don't believe in a higher being. I'm not one of them. I look at the world around me and see the touch of a master's hand in what can only be described by my mind as beautiful design. I don't consider myself religious by any means but I do consider myself spiritual insomuch as I believe in God and communicate with Him and am comfortable with that. I don't need to search for answers or to be convinced for or against and respect how you feel about the matter too. You don't have to believe. It's okay. I still respect you and your right to not believe. I even understand the ire, disappointment and bewilderment that onlookers feel when they see those who believe, whether they flourish, flounder or fail. And many of us do fail spectacularly, don't we?
I was 'born' Roman Catholic to a family that had been that way for many generations. I loved the universality of belonging to such a huge 'family' and feeling cared for and I loved (and still do) the ritual and mysticism. I especially love the devotion and unselfishness of the believers. Not so much clergy, although Sister Eileen at St. Mary Star of the Sea was a peach, but I always took issue with authority figures because I've found that power is intoxicating and most don't handle it well, and my personal experiences bore that out.
I don't know what was the catalyst but my mother and grandmother began to go to a tiny pentecostal congregation some nights and before I knew it, my entire family with one exception, me, had converted and embraced their new religion with fervor. For a long time my family seemed drunk with happiness but I was skeptical. I was asked to shed many beliefs in favor of frankly fantastical stories based all on the Bible and subsequent interpretations of spiritual authorities and I was doubtful. I participated in the small church of warm friendly and generous people and I made a half-hearted attempt at saying the Sinners Prayer but I felt nothing much the same as I felt nothing when I was in the Catholic Church. I kept waiting to feel 'something' and was disappointed when I was told by my pastor that my problem was that I was thinking too much. I realized that any God that required me to suspend logic wasn't the God for me and quietly withdrew while remaining cordial to my friends and family within the community.
Thinking for myself, according to many, my parents, religious teachers and the little church was always a problem it seemed. Around the tulmultuous ages of 15-20-ish I decided that I had to choose between God and myself and chose my own desires. The truth was that I felt rejected by God because I felt He didn't care enough for me to give me some huge epiphany or the gift of speaking in tongues as everyone else in my congregation had. I felt left out of God's Club and although they loved me, I was more of an auxilliary member stuck in some sort of limbo because I hadn't cracked the code. I felt like I failed God and them and drifted away but I had friends who kept reaching out and loving me and pulling me in with their love.
A few of those friends were considered rogues within the church because they challenged authority, not with defiance but with their own fervor and zeal. They loved regardless of whether one towed the lined and it exasperated and later enraged those in power because as long as believers did what they were told under the guise of being a good Christian, everyone would be good well-behaved little soldiers. Eventually my friends would literally be barred from entering the church in a shameful display of abuse of power and I stood there and wept because while I was in good standing with the congregation for appearing every Sunday and tithing, I felt spiritually empty, while they were driven out because their passion and spirituality didn't fit well.
My dear friends didn't even use that horrible experience to their advantage as they well could have. Instead, they began to conduct little bible studies in their home on Tuesday nights and had an open house to anyone with an open heart and it was there that I first felt a spiritual awakening.
I am reminded of a little joke about how some churches like to clean a fish before they catch it, because I had been found wanting many times in the little church. I was a smoker then, and refused to wear skirts or dresses at the time because I was very self-conscious then about my weight and I was penalized by not being allowed to teach Sunday School or sing in front of the congregation (until they got choir robes) all of which drove a further wedge into my feelings of rejection and not being up to snuff. Contrast that to the humble little bible group that didn't care what I did as long as I wasn't disruptive. I and subsequently, my spiritual life bloomed under such freedom and acceptance and I had a real thirst and curiosity to know God.
I also realized that my withdrawal from God was a mistake. I had blamed Him (and I do think of Him as a 'him' but am comfortable with other descriptors) for other people's mistakes. The distance between us wasn't because He had rejected me; I was just led to believe I didn't know the magic formula to be favored, but that was human error, on my part and on others I trusted with my spiritual life. Now I see that while we are all on different walks on our spiritual journeys, should we choose to follow them, we owe it to ourselves, to God and to each other to be honest and responsible. What I believe may not be what you believe but if I'm going to believe in God, to put Him in a box and try to define Him for others is dishonest, self-serving and destructive.
The best way that I can show I am any kind of believer is to live my life in a way where others might wonder and seek out answers and desire it for themselves and if they need my input to tell them, this is how I feel and what I think, but you have to think and decide for yourself. Don't let anyone tell you because there are no magic tricks or secret handshakes. There IS love and compassion, forgiveness and gratitude and power and humility and if it seems so simple, it is. If it seems more universal and less religious, it is. Maybe that's the point.
I was 'born' Roman Catholic to a family that had been that way for many generations. I loved the universality of belonging to such a huge 'family' and feeling cared for and I loved (and still do) the ritual and mysticism. I especially love the devotion and unselfishness of the believers. Not so much clergy, although Sister Eileen at St. Mary Star of the Sea was a peach, but I always took issue with authority figures because I've found that power is intoxicating and most don't handle it well, and my personal experiences bore that out.
I don't know what was the catalyst but my mother and grandmother began to go to a tiny pentecostal congregation some nights and before I knew it, my entire family with one exception, me, had converted and embraced their new religion with fervor. For a long time my family seemed drunk with happiness but I was skeptical. I was asked to shed many beliefs in favor of frankly fantastical stories based all on the Bible and subsequent interpretations of spiritual authorities and I was doubtful. I participated in the small church of warm friendly and generous people and I made a half-hearted attempt at saying the Sinners Prayer but I felt nothing much the same as I felt nothing when I was in the Catholic Church. I kept waiting to feel 'something' and was disappointed when I was told by my pastor that my problem was that I was thinking too much. I realized that any God that required me to suspend logic wasn't the God for me and quietly withdrew while remaining cordial to my friends and family within the community.
Thinking for myself, according to many, my parents, religious teachers and the little church was always a problem it seemed. Around the tulmultuous ages of 15-20-ish I decided that I had to choose between God and myself and chose my own desires. The truth was that I felt rejected by God because I felt He didn't care enough for me to give me some huge epiphany or the gift of speaking in tongues as everyone else in my congregation had. I felt left out of God's Club and although they loved me, I was more of an auxilliary member stuck in some sort of limbo because I hadn't cracked the code. I felt like I failed God and them and drifted away but I had friends who kept reaching out and loving me and pulling me in with their love.
A few of those friends were considered rogues within the church because they challenged authority, not with defiance but with their own fervor and zeal. They loved regardless of whether one towed the lined and it exasperated and later enraged those in power because as long as believers did what they were told under the guise of being a good Christian, everyone would be good well-behaved little soldiers. Eventually my friends would literally be barred from entering the church in a shameful display of abuse of power and I stood there and wept because while I was in good standing with the congregation for appearing every Sunday and tithing, I felt spiritually empty, while they were driven out because their passion and spirituality didn't fit well.
My dear friends didn't even use that horrible experience to their advantage as they well could have. Instead, they began to conduct little bible studies in their home on Tuesday nights and had an open house to anyone with an open heart and it was there that I first felt a spiritual awakening.
I am reminded of a little joke about how some churches like to clean a fish before they catch it, because I had been found wanting many times in the little church. I was a smoker then, and refused to wear skirts or dresses at the time because I was very self-conscious then about my weight and I was penalized by not being allowed to teach Sunday School or sing in front of the congregation (until they got choir robes) all of which drove a further wedge into my feelings of rejection and not being up to snuff. Contrast that to the humble little bible group that didn't care what I did as long as I wasn't disruptive. I and subsequently, my spiritual life bloomed under such freedom and acceptance and I had a real thirst and curiosity to know God.
I also realized that my withdrawal from God was a mistake. I had blamed Him (and I do think of Him as a 'him' but am comfortable with other descriptors) for other people's mistakes. The distance between us wasn't because He had rejected me; I was just led to believe I didn't know the magic formula to be favored, but that was human error, on my part and on others I trusted with my spiritual life. Now I see that while we are all on different walks on our spiritual journeys, should we choose to follow them, we owe it to ourselves, to God and to each other to be honest and responsible. What I believe may not be what you believe but if I'm going to believe in God, to put Him in a box and try to define Him for others is dishonest, self-serving and destructive.
The best way that I can show I am any kind of believer is to live my life in a way where others might wonder and seek out answers and desire it for themselves and if they need my input to tell them, this is how I feel and what I think, but you have to think and decide for yourself. Don't let anyone tell you because there are no magic tricks or secret handshakes. There IS love and compassion, forgiveness and gratitude and power and humility and if it seems so simple, it is. If it seems more universal and less religious, it is. Maybe that's the point.
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