Jabberwocky

I’ve made you into a fairy tale monster. Mythic, horrific, contained.

All these years you have existed separate from my reality. You became a bad dream, half forgotten in the morning light but still lingering behind, springing forth when I closed my eyes. You became the shadow in the bushes, the half glimpsed stranger, the eyes felt watching.

I reconciled myself to what was lost because I built so many beautiful walls to protect what was left.

Like a naughty Alice, I could not resist what is through the looking glass though; always searching for the monster I was afraid to find. Peering wide eyed through the mirror as though I believed that knowing where the monster was would keep him at bay. As though believing if I could not find the monster, he had ceased to exist.

Then, there you were at last. Again.

You have not evaporated into mist, after all. You have, in fact, married, fathered, befriended.

I have only one question for you now;

Have you truly changed or have you simply gotten better at hiding your fangs?

Polished Toes Are The Keynote of Good Grooming

Hey. Did y'all know that some people on the interwebs AREN'T imaginary? Weird, right?

Today, the blogging world is a bit sniffly and on edge as we wait for news of Anissa Mayhew, a fellow blogger (fellow. Ha. She totally kicks my ass at blogging. And also at tweeting) who was struck down by a stroke. Anissa is in a coma right now and she and her family could really use your positive vibes/prayers/whatever that she recover as quickly and as fully as possible.

Secondly, one of the very first blogs that I started reading and one of my favorites is She Just Walks Around With It. Seriously, Kristy cracks me the hell up and is one of the major reasons that I moved to blogger in from Spaces. Also? She has an adorable new baby named Eve. And those cheeks? OH MY GOD. Kristy also write as site where she reviews products. She doesn't even use the F-word in her reviews. I KNOW, that's some talent right there. And you know what ELSE? She give stuff away. WAY better stuff than I give away. I love her blog. I love that she laid out everything from a gut wrenching divorce, to a new life on a different coast right down to a brand new baby and joys and trials that come with her in a way that you can related to and laugh with because you know exactly what she means when she tells you that the biggest accomplishment some days is managing to shower. It's one of those rare mommy-blogs that isn't a mommy blog at all, but rather a blog that just happens to be written by a mommy. A mommy who puts her baby first but isn't defined by her. The kind of mommy you want to invite over for wine and cupcakes.

And I? Love wine and cupcakes. I also love winning stuff. Like that time in 1986 when I won the Spelling Bee because I could spell "chief" and Bevin couldn't and I'm pretty sure it's only because I was wearing my awesome Little Orphan Annie knickers. (the short pants kind, not the slang-for-panties kind. I imagine my panties were probably Underoo's. Remember those? I loved mine. I had Wonder Woman.) What the hell was I talking about? Oh yes. Winning stuff. Apparently Kristy's contests aren't imaginary because I won a pretty awesome prize from her last give away. Which means that YOU could win the next one which includes a $100 Visa gift card. So go over there and enter.

Lastly, apparently not imaginary interwebz peoples, I thought we'd do something interactive today that may or may not include a prize that I may or may not remember to mail to you in a timely fashion.

The other day I mentioned that a major deciding factor in my life is how my Gram would do or handle something. My Gram, in addition to being hilarious, a kick ass party guest and a gracious hostess is a font of knowledge and I was lucky enough to grow up down the street from her. She taught my sisters and I all kind of important things. Like a girl should always have a red bra in case she needs to flag down a train. That you should always name a child something that makes an easy nickname or they'll wind up called something horrible like Lumpy. That you can get past forgetting anyones name by calling them honey, and that if you can't be nice you better at least be polite.

So that brings us to what may or may not be our contest, but is definitely going to be a blog entry.

What piece of wisdom would you give to a child? What one little thing, simple or not, do you think that everyone should know? What is you version of WhatWouldGramDo?

Three MeMe -Improved because it's NEW.

You know those "Three Things" tags? Where you're meant to tell three places you've lived, three names you've been called and so on? Well, those are like SO BORING. But I've been tagged, so I'm making my OWN Three Things MeMe and you're all tagged. So There. Ha.

1. Three items you would take to a desert island and why. Don't be a loser and say "a boat" either, ok?

2. If you could only save three people from zombies who they would be?

3. If you had to smell like a food, which three foods would you prefer?

4. Three books you wish you'd never read?

5. Three biggest lies your parents told you?

6. Three favorite band names (real, or "If we had a band we should call it...")?

7. Three things that make you go "ew"?

8. What are your three biggest addictions?

9. Chicken and waffles are ever so tasty; three food combos so wrong they're right?

10. Three bloggers you would make out with?

There. That was hard. Now go fill it out! It's not like you were working anyway.

Je regrette pas (GBE 51)

Of the things I should not have done
Of the things I should not have said
Of the things I should not have felt

You are not one

If I could have been other than I am
If I could have known you other than you are
If I could have altered the path time took

What apology would have been needed?

There is no season for lament
There is no occasion for penitence
There is no latitude for despondence

Love does not regret the price it has paid
Love does not regret the tears it has shed
Love does not regret the hours it has waited

I do not regret you

Y'all are always on my mind

Basically, gravity and me are not friends. Never have been.

Um, Kiki (I can hear you thinking, you know…it’s my blogging super power) how can you and gravity not be friends? Gravity is wonderful!

You know what? MAYBE TO YOU IT IS.

But YOU don’t have a pepper foot, do you? No, I didn’t think so Mr/s SmartyPants.

Before I start ranting nonsensically about all the many ways gravity conspires against me, I suppose I should just get to the point.

The talented Lorrie was the first person to catch the reference to the Lewis Carroll poem in yesterdays blog, so I told her that she could have a prize and even thought I offered her pocket lint, she elected to take door prize number 2, some Andes mints. Now, Lorrie is a girl from The Big City and she sometimes mocks my quaint Wild West ways (like the letting kids run wild through the countryside/city/neighborhood part and the carrying a revolver everyday part), so I thought “hey! I’ll toss in some hilariously tacky tourist stuff”. Now, as a general rule, with the notable exceptions being maybe the penis gourd or the random life sized foam animals for target practice or maybe that copy of Joe Dirt, I do not have tacky crap at my house. Which meant I had to go and find some at the ghetto mall. Because the dirt mall is closed on weekdays, obviously.

So after taking the picture of the Ostrich skin tiger print elf boots with the sparkly vagina-looking spot on the toes that make it look like the wearer kicked a fairy in the hu-hu,

(note the matching belts & belt buckles!)

I wandered into the “gift” shop.

Typical of all gift shops it was CRAMMED with lovely, lovely treasures. So there I am, picking up and discarding spiders entombed in acrylic, resin “realistic” cow skulls and Kokopelli’s crafted from paperclips, I found JUST the thing I needed. Hot sauce. Better yet, DUMB ASS HOT SAUCE. Oh, yes, that’s its name. Way better than “Kick Ass Hot Sauce” in my opinion. So there I am, delighted with my own cleverness, I grab the bottle and in slow motion watch it fall.

And of course it shatters.

And OF COURSE it sprays my entire leg with hot sauce, coats my foot, fills up my shoes, hoses the lower shelf and begins, immediately to make my eyes water with the overwhelming odor of habanera’s.

And OF COURSE the more schmuck working runs over to see if I am okay, while my husband and his friend laugh their asses off in the corner, because this is, after all, not the first time I have done something to embarrass myself in a mall. So while the poor, skinny, underpaid, solicitous boy begins to mop at my saucy foot and apologize for the rudeness of his picante bottles, my only thought is “SCORE! Blog fodder!”



PS....when you spill hot sauce on your foot, it tingles.

PPS....if it's good hot sauce it will continue to tingle even though you've washed it and showered and it's more than 12 hrs later.

PPPS...if you get it on your hands, DO NOT RUB YOUR EYES even after you've washed your hands 6 times.

PPPPS...I can hear you laughing.

Beautiful Indifference (GBE 49)

I was relieved when I did not find you. Because no trace of you existed I could convince myself that you did not exist, that what happened was so long passed that it no longer mattered.

I did not, could not, would not, let it go.

You became a fairy tale monster. Mythic, horrific, contained.

I peered around corners expecting you to jump forth and rip my heart from my chest. I tiptoed through the forest of buildings you used to haunt for fear that you would materialize before me. That like a Jabberwocky, you would always await me, making every road impassable.

I mourned what was lost at the same time I added mortar to the walls of this fortress; bricking myself up one pebble at a time.

All the while with one eye on the looking glass.

I am not sure what I thought I would do if, when, I found you staring forth from my reflection. I believed I would feel anger. That every old hurt, real and imagined would rush righteously back, searing my heart.

Then, at last, there you were.

And I felt nothing.

Even if it's only you....(GBE 48)

I am the one that left that twenty clipped to your tarp. I've seen you there before, huddled against the building to keep cool or warm or dry. I have seen the way that you look through me, the same way I am sure that people look through you. I would have stopped to talk to you, but you don't look as though you are interested in my penance so I waited until you disappeared around the corner before I made my move.



I hope that you used it to buy something you needed like a hat or a sandwich, but if you used it to buy a Forty and a dime bag, that's cool too. I wanted to leave you a note to suggest that you call someone. Maybe a friend, maybe your mother. I wanted to tell you that as long as there is someone in the world who remembers what the back of your ears look like when you are fresh from the bath that there is still hope; that as long as there is someone who knows what your laugh sounds like when you are genuinely happy that all isn't lost. But I didn't have any paper so I clipped the bill to the front door of your plastic and pallet board castle and walked away.

Fame, Fortune and Porn

After making an astounding $0.10 through advertising on my blog, I’m positively drunk with the thought that I have made actual, real, legal tender with my sparkling wit and hilarious anecdotes.

This means that I’m only about $49,999.90 cents away from making a reasonable living at blogging. So while I’m embracing my dimes worth of love, Kiki can’t live on $0.0003 per day. This leaves me only two options; I need to either produce better quality work or I need more advertisers.

I think we ALL know which of those are more likely to happen.

That’s how I wound up on Amazon.com, which pays you in either Amazon gift certificates or real money. But first you have to set up your Amazon.com associates profile. It’s not too difficult, you just fill in the bits and pieces with your information and I’m going along fine, because I’m a trained professional, people, I can spell my name with out even LOOKING at my driver license.

Just before they cough up the html coding for my side bar ads, they asked me possibly the hardest question I’ve ever encountered.

“Describe your web site in 200 characters”

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

First off, having to describe this MASTERPIECE of literary genius is hard enough, but what kind of ads do you think;

Foul mouthed, semi-alcoholic neglectful mom who’d rather shop than cook and is allergic to cleaning so thusly enslaves her teenager for the purpose of generating bloggable events for her poorly punctuated website.

Would generate for me? I bet whatever it is, it would be porn though. Possibly midget porn. Which *would* be kind of awesome. But if, GOD FORBID they posted ads for books like “The Queen of Clean” I would NEVER, EVER forgive myself.

Which is why instead I put; I use the F word to blog about stuff.

Hopefully I get porn ads anyway.

It's Not Stalking If I WORSHIP YOU.

My Dearest Petal of Sweet Beauty Oprah,

Hi! It’s me, Kiki. Remember? From that one time that I hid in your closet and tried on all your clothes and then you called the cops? Right. Sorry about that. But you really have some nice clothes and even though they didn’t exactly fit me, I was able to get them on and you have to admit, that yellow dress you wore to the 54th Annual Emmy Awards in 2002 looked pretty good on me. I think if you’re being honest, you’ll have to admit that the wine that got spilled on it when you tried to wrestle your Emmy away from me is pretty much your fault. I was just licking it, okay? What’s so wrong about that? If you would just let me smell your socks ONCE IN A DAMN WHILE I wouldn’t need to do that, now would I?

So, um, anyway. You haven’t been returning my calls. Or my letters. Or my email. Or my texts. Or my faxes. Or the singing strip-o-gram. Or the edible arrangement. Or the sky writing. Or the bill board. Or anything, frankly, I’m starting to think you JUST DON’T CARE. You never even wave to me when you see me in the bushes anymore. I went and bought a new trench coat because you said that it was one of the ten wardrobe essentials every woman should have. I wear all ten essentials all the time, but do you even LOOK AT ME ANYMORE? No. No, you don’t. Now I know how Steadman feels. Could it be that you feel you see me enough since I sent you that photo album where I Photo-shopped myself into every interview you’ve done for the last 22 years? Just so you know; superimposing my face over that of every single audience member and guest was a lot of work. But it was a work of love. Because I LOVE YOU and I want you to be able to relive those happy times with me. Even though you can’t see me, I AM ALWAYS THERE.

But, really, would it kill you to JUST ONCE acknowledge me? One damn compliment about how excellent the tattoo of your face on my back is would go a long way. How many songs have I recorded and sent to you? 12? 24? 367? Didn’t “If you were a cult leader, I’d drink your Kool-Aid” touch you at all? Did you not weep to “If God Were One of Us, He’d be you, Oprah”? I understand why you didn’t make my book “Ops & Me, Like Mash Potatoes and Gravy, A love Story about my special bond with the most fabulous woman ever, Oprah Winfrey, by Kiki” a book club selection, it would just make people jealous. There is simply no reason that you can not allow the life sized cardboard cut out of me to be displayed in your bathroom like I asked you to nicely each of the five times I’ve sent it to you though. Yet, still, you act as though that restraining order makes me invisible. I AM A REAL GIRL OPRAH, if you cut me, do I not bleed the Color Purple?

The real reason for my letter, this missive penned with my blood, sweat, tears, drool and toe jam on paper woven from my belly button lint and locks of hair is this; Ops, I’m thinking I may have to break up with you. The cost of fuel to follow you from Chicago, to California, to your farm, to Hawaii; it’s just getting too expensive. I know you’ll miss me, precious, but don’t cry! This is nothing like that time you had me held in jail overnight for rubbing myself all over with the Crisco from your kitchen! This parting will be temporary. Just until this wee little energy crisis is over! Although, if you would just give me a damn Vespa custom painted with your picture like I’ve asked you for in the haiku’s I composed about our friendship, it would be over a lot more quickly.

I must sign off now, My Oprah, my precious, my little chocolate lamb chop, the nurses say it’s time for my medication and I’ve worn my crayon down to a nubbins.

There, there, don’t cry my chicken fried southern snookums, absence only makes the heart grow fonder, right?

Until we are together again, just know;

YOU COMPLETE ME.

Smooches,

Your Kikikins

Eating Worms

Lorrie stressed me out today. She sent me an email that commanded me to be funny. But, chickens, I am no trained chimp! This hilarity takes MINUTES of careful planning in which I consume Butterfinger bites and check myself for chin hairs. It’s a science.

So, I did the only thing I could do. I texted my friend Frank and said “Do something humorous that I can blog”. Wouldn’t you know that he, too, is not a trained chimp? What the hell? AND THEN he had the nerve to ask why I wasn’t doing work?! So I’m all; DUDE. I am getting FREE BLOG PIMPING today and I have no inspiration. NONE. Nothing funny happened yesterday. Nothing funny happened this morning. No one of dubious character hit on me this morning and that weird guy with the “lifted” ten speed is no where to be found. I am desperate here. This blog could be my launching pad to Oprah! And you know what that ass said to me?

Frank: If excuses were the equivalent of the 100 yard dash you would be Carl Lewis!!!!!
me: Ah, you're sweet.
Frank: I know, like a pickle
me: ew. I HATE sweet pickles!
Frank: Really
me: yep. They're an affront to the pickle species.
Frank: Ok then
I am sweet like a sweet tart?
me: I DO like those.
you may be a sweet tart.

AND EVEN THAT IS NOT FUNNY.

You know what that means? That means all my comments are going to say “YOU SUCK” and I’m going to get all depressed and stop combing my hair (which looks real cute today - see?)

Just kidding. Although, that would be fabulous. I should wear my hair like that to work. Now this

Just looks boring. GREAT. ONE MORE THING TO STRESS ABOUT. I'm not funny and my cute hair isn't cute.)

I will have to resort to doing ACTUAL work and by the time I get home I’ll be all exhausted (and will not get any damn sleep because of these two)

Which means will NEVER launch my career as a gift bag gift picker, I will never get interviewed on the local news by someone with a lisp and mall bangs, I will NEVER be witty and charming and attract the attention of a vacationing TV producer who will NEVER want me to talk about my successful Gift Bagging/Blogging life on a somewhat nationally syndicated evening infotainment program which will NEVER get seen by a Harpo producer and I will NEVER EVER get to meet Oprah.

SO THANKS A LOT FOR KILLING MY DREAMS LORRIE.

GOD.

Adam and Eve and Betty (GBE: 45, Cheating)

So, I’m probably the only one that’s going to not write a blog entitled “Why All Cheaters are Scumbags Who Must DIEDIEDIEDIE”. But, you know me, always have to be different.

I do not believe and never have believed, that there is only one person in the whole entire world that you are destined to love. I don’t believe that you can only love one person at a time. I don’t believe that modern American concepts of morality are the only “right” ways to believe. I don’t believe in condemnation for its own sake.

I believe that no one, not even its participants, knows everything that goes on in a relationship. I believe that it is wholly possible to love two or three or more people for different reasons, but still be “in love” with all of them. I believe that we all need as much love as we can get. I believe that you should be happy with the one you’re with and if you’re not, you should leave; but I am also realistic enough to know that you can’t always just walk away; so sometimes, one relationship will overlap another.

For me to say that someone is a bad person because they engaged in out-of-relationship relations is just like me judging them for any other reason…it’s not my place. I do not know what goes on in your home, in your bedroom or in your heart.

I do not know if your husband/wife/other makes you want to kill yourself every time you hear them chewing their dinner. You don’t owe me an explanation for feeling whole and calm only when you’re with someone other than said partner. It’s not my damn business.

Now, I can smell the burning rage emanating off of a couple of you. You’re probably thinking “Stupid Kiki, you’d feel differently if you’d ever been cheated on”. Well, no, actually, I feel this way because I was cheated on. I’d tell you my story about it, but it’s not that interesting and pretty short.

Ah, heck, I’ll tell you, because this is my blog and I can do whatever I want.

I had a boyfriend. I caught him (literally, caught him) fucking my friend. I was very, very hurt. Very angry. I hated both of them with adjectives I had to look up. Then, I talked to him. It wasn’t that he didn’t (like) love me, it was just that he (liked) loved her, too. It wasn’t that I wasn’t special, it wasn’t that I wasn’t good enough, it had nothing to do with how he felt about me at all, it’s just that he also felt this way about someone else.

My point of contention was that *I* deserved to know this information, to make a decision for myself regarding my participation in this triangular relationship. He agreed, apologized, expressed his regret/fear/worry about losing me. It wasn’t that I wasn’t what he needed/wanted, it’s just that he needed her too. He didn’t mean to hurt me, because it wasn’t ABOUT me. It was about him. Of course, being both angry and hurt, I chose to walk away. I chose to find someone else who loved (liked) only me. Friend and boyfriend got married about a year later. I got drunk. They have five children. He still signs his Christmas cards “love” and I still believe him. Could I have been happy with him? Probably. He’s a pretty great guy. Could he have been happy with me? We’ll never know.

I was pretty mad at him for a long time. I blamed him for “cheating” on me and “robbing” me of what I thought was mine. Like I owned him and he owed me.

Of course, I didn’t and he didn’t. We can only own ourselves. We can only owe ourselves happiness. Is it selfish? Hell, yes. Happiness is always selfish to some degree. Even if I do something that I know will make YOU happy, chances are it’s because making you happy makes ME happy...so have I really done it for you, or for myself?

Then, also, I grew up. I realized that it’s not my place to legislate your morality. If *I* don’t like what *you* are doing, then that’s on me. I can leave or not. Would I be hurt or angry if my husband had an affair? Maybe. It would depend on the who and the why and then when and a thousand other factors. Would I instantly strike him from my life? No, that would just be silly; I wouldn’t NOT love him because he loved another, if that’s what made him happy. I don’t tell him not to hunt, I don’t ask him not to see his friend that I dislike, I wouldn’t make him choose between them and me. If being I felt that his time with another woman took away from what *I* needed from him then it would be up to me to either get/ask/take what I needed from him or leave and find it somewhere else.

I think how I feel about it comes down to the “why” more than anything. Everyone does everything for a reason, no matter how base, matter how small, no matter how controllable it seems; there is a reason for everything.

* There are “cheaters” who do it for revenge. They do it to “punish” their partner for a short coming, for not being a “good” provider, a “good” or “supportive” partner or for having an affair of their own. One day, they’ll throw their sexual conquests in the face of their partner, because the purpose all along was to hurt someone else. This kind of cheater does suck, I won’t argue with you there.

* There are thrill of the moment “cheaters”. These are the people who coined the phrase “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”. They don’t cheat to hurt their partner, they’ll probably never tell their partner. They’ll probably be wracked with guilt for the rest of their lives. This cheater, I think, can be "forgiven".

* There are the “cheaters” that can’t help themselves. Low self-esteem, prior abuse, substance abuse; something other than the sex is what drives them. Sex is the balm for their wounds. If it wasn’t sex, it would be gambling, or drinking or some other potentially self-destructive behavior. They probably will cheat until they get caught. They probably can’t explain exactly WHY they do it, they only know that they HAVE to. This kind of cheater should also be "forgiven", they need help.

* There are “cheaters” who cheat for love. Oh, yes, I said it. This kind of cheater is not a serial offender, would probably be one of the first to tell you “cheating” is wrong….and yet. This cheater probably loves their partner, or did love their partner, very much. Then, they met another. Someone they love just as much, or think that they do, or may someday. This cheater sometimes lives a double life; a man with two families in two towns or a mistress of decades, for example. Sometimes, they leave their spouse, sometimes not. Sometimes, it’s culturally acceptable (France, for example has both a long and current history of accepting extra-martial relationships as normal or even healthy). Here it’s not. Sometimes this “cheater” is in the leaving stages of one relationship when they find they love another, is it my place to tell them they must wait, if in their heart the other relationship is done?

This fourth cheater is the stickiest kind, isn’t it? How do you condemn someone for love? How do you look at a woman who’s spent decades waiting in the wings, loving when she can a man that belongs to another, simply because the other came first? Do you tell her that she has any less right to be happy? What of the married partner? Can you blame them for not wanting to leave someone they promised to love forever if they still do, in fact, love them? Can you ask them to separate themselves from their children because they love someone in addition to those children’s mother?

How can you ask someone to destroy themselves because YOU don’t feel their behavior conforms to YOUR idea of what’s morally right?

Move Aside, Award Winning Blogger Coming Through

Good news Peeps! I have been awarded a prestigious award called the “Arte y Pico” award! An award so coveted that YOU HAVE NEVER EVEN HEARD OF IT, it’s that secret and awesome. It’s so awesome that I get a magical…..just never you mind what it is.

I got this accolade of great glory from the hilarious Lorrie over at http://www.ournameisblog.blogspot.com/ That’s a lot of “blog” in one blog, but she’s well worth seeing past the repetitiousness of her blog name because she is a drunk like me….I mean blogger of great caliber.

She came to visit this filthy mouthed corner of the world and she thought little ol’ me was worthy of this wonderful recognition. You know what? I SURE FOOLED HER! And you know what else? I’m taking it and running gleefully away to pet it, and love it, and call it George.

You know what the best part is though? It’s the kind of award that you pass on down the road once you’re done molesting it. And by molesting it, I mean licking it. And by licking it, I mean….licking it. What the hell else could I mean?

I mean LOOK AT IT…..


You know you want to lick it too.

So here’s how it works, I am going to use my MASSIVE power to bestow this coveted glory on the following five people (in no particular order) who must then pass it on to others of equal, um, quality.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please give it UP for;

Miss Nadine Hightower at http://www.velvettush.blogspot.com/ because she’s my beloved blog sister. Beloved for being a)shorter than me and b)a kick ass beehive wearing queen of the country road.

Liz, My heterosexual pig farming life partner at http://www.elikapeka.spaces.msn.com/ she doesn’t blog much, but it’s because she’s busy chopping up bodies…FARMING. I mean farming.

Landinn – at http://www.landinn.spaces.live.com/ she gives awesome job hunting tips and rights insightful blogs about deep topics. Unlike someone you might know who blogs about her own ass a lot…

KWR221 at http://www.kwr221.blogspot.com/ she’s my new snarking buddy. We visit all the same sights and gasp at all the same fashion tragedies and yet still manage to not stab our collective eyes out with proverbial forks. AND she has a boat. She hasn’t invited me over yet, BUT SHE WILL.

And drum roll please…..the final Arte y Pico goes to……

Manda at http://www.sweetpainintheneck.spaces.live.com/ Miss Manda has three adorable babies, a hunky man, a lovely new house and she’s gorgeous. So I hate her. JUST KIDDING. I love her. She’s also very funny, very sweet and CANADIAN. I know, right?

So there you go ladies, you too can be one of about 65,000 people who are now equal to Nobel Peace Prize winners, the Poet Laureate and the Baby Jesus.

Alone Together (GBE 44: Independence)

There is a difference between independent and alone.

Standing on my own feet and having no one to support me are not the same thing.

Making my own choices, for my own reasons is not mutually exclusive to wanting advice.

I would give you the shirt off my back, the food from my plate, my heart to hold, my soul; if you needed it. I would give it to you even if you didn’t. I would stand up for you, stand up to you, stand up beside you; with out hesitation.

It scares the breath out of me that you would do the same.

All this time, I have thought I wanted to be alone when what I needed was independence.

Thank you for helping me see the difference.

Witching Hour (GBE 43; Reality)(Life as Fiction)

I have never forgiven myself for that night.

It doesn't matter now. I’m not sure why I hold onto it so tightly. I’m not sure why that night sticks fast in my memory, frozen, perfectly preserved so that I can smell your aftershave masking the desperation. So precisely detailed that the sheen of sweat on your forehead shimmers surreally in the half light of my memory and I can still taste the salt on my lips from the kiss I gave you more than a decade a go.

In reality, that night was irrelevant to what followed, wasn’t it? You never said a thing to me. You never hinted that anything was other than fine.

I want to say that I wish you had, but I don’t. It is easier for me to take comfort in my ability to say that I had no idea. That I can say I never saw it coming allows me to reconcile myself to it. I understand why you never said anything to me. I have been where you were since then and it’s a place that you can only go alone. There is no room there for anyone else, because there is nothing that can be said to bring you back from there.

I get that.

I understand, now, what it is like to go days, even weeks with no physical contact. I understand that you cease to exist when you do not exist to someone else. I understand the intoxication of an unexpected touch. How it yanks you back into yourself and you are forced to confront what brought you to that point to begin with.

Then, I did not.

Then, you were just a boy I knew. Just a friend. Just a coworker who would always cover my ass when I was inevitably late. Someone to sit with in the cafeteria and mock the yuppie bitches trying to land rancher husbands who smelled of their daddy’s money. You made me laugh, but you did not exist to me.

Now I understand what happened after, but I do not understand what happened that night.

Why did you come to my room if you didn’t want to let me help you? You were there for hours and you never ever let on what was coming.

You didn’t even say good bye when you left, my lipstick print perfect on your cheek in the dim light of the 3am hallway.

They told me the next morning that you were already gone at dawn.

Two hours from my bed to your grave.

Why didn’t you say something? Was there a plan already formed? Was I some kind of test? A good bye? A last chance? Could I have said something, anything to bring you back from there?

Or was the reality of your life that you had believed there was no other choice?

There was a choice.

There is always a choice. You could have said something. Anything. Asked to stay, asked me to stay with you. I would have.

A decade has passed and most of another and if I could have back that one moment, that pause in the hallway when you turned from the stairs to look at me, I would trade my teasing go home for a come back. I would give you one last hug.

Maybe it would have been enough.

If Wishes Were Belly Buttons

I just signed up for a blog group called “The Group Blogging Experience”. Every week you get a topic. This week is “Wishes”, so here goes.

I wish I had a beautiful belly button.

I know, I know. It seems a little vapid. But I’ll explain. Promise.

If I had a beautiful belly button, it would mean I lost the weight that I should have lost years ago.

Which would mean that I finally managed to get off my ass and make it to the gym regularly.

Probably because I solved my inability to get motivated.

So chances are I have gotten my depression in check finally after nearly 20 years.

In all likelihood, that means, I’m at least content with life. Maybe even happy.

Therefore, I’m probably ALSO doing all the other things that I always say I will, but never do. Like finishing that novel. Or learning to knit. Or you know, cleaning my house more frequently than I have birthdays.

If I had a beautiful belly button, I’d probably stop saying mean things about people. People like super models, for example, whose lives are OBVIOUSLY very difficult. You know, with all the standing around being pretty and waiting for it to be time to eat their daily raison.

If I had a beautiful belly button, I might wear a belt. Then my ass crack wouldn’t hang out of my pants, causing massive traffic pile ups when the sun glints off of it.

If I had a beautiful belly button, I’d give to charity. Dozens of fat orphans would have designer jeans and adorable tops to lift themselves out of poverty with. They’d probably go on to get jobs, go to college and do something amazing and meaningful they might not otherwise have accomplished. Like curing cancer! Or maybe bring about world peace! Or make gas affordable again so that I don’t have to consider selling my plasma to be able to afford a quarter of a tank. Or maybe they would invent a way to teleport from place to place so that we completely reduce our dependency on fossil fuel for transportation, thereby reducing the effects of global warming and SAVING THE WORLD.

So that’s why I’m wishing for a beautiful belly button.

It’s for the good of all mankind, really. It’s very selfless of me; NOBEL even.

I know. You’re welcome.