a paradox perhaps, this life of mine. i have often wondered how anyone has the courage to go out into the world and just go and do without thoughts or worries of the effects and consequences of their deeds on those around. than i realize that this is just how i was programed to think and believe by my parents. that this is my perception, my viewpoint and mine alone, not even my sisters share this. yet even though this is different it is not necessarily right or wrong, it simply is mine.

what scales of measure balance my conscious life? strength and weakness are woven so tightly together they are sometimes difficult to distinguish; deeds done or deed left undone, action taken or actions resisted, words spoken or words left unsaid. temptations indulged in and those resisted.



sinners and saints are fictional beings. humans are neither of thoses and everything inbetween.

Nothing at all…
No matter how many times you think it
No matter how many times you say it
No matter how many times you hear it
Nothing will change,
Nothing will resolve,
Nothing will heal
Nothing at all…
Unless you feel the words to be truth
Unless you believe the words to be truth
Unless you know the words to be truth
Nothing at all…
Absolutely nothing at all…

Obviously I’m in a morbid mood,
I just finished reading a book, a new author for me, which is one reason why I rarely venture out to explore the imaginations of new storytellers. Sometimes instead of taking you away from, they dump you right in the mist of the very thing you were reading so diligently to avoid popping into your conscious thoughts. I thought I was safe with this author. It wasn’t even the first story of hers that I read. She waited till the last two chapters before she knocked me on my emotional ass.

This is what Patricia Briggs wrote: “just like it is rape when an adult coerces or cajoles a child. No matter if the child cooperates or not. Whether it feels good or not. Because that child is not able to do anything else.”

beer fairy

today has been a spectacular day! first off, i began the day by writing. it felt really great to write again. other than blogging i haven't written much in the last few months. i realized that it doesn't matter what i write, writing just lifts my spirits and puts me in a jolly mood. and that is definitely what i am after, many delightfully jolly days.

i went to work at 4pm this evening only to find out that i was scheduled from 6:30am to 3pm. OMG! and of course the new big boss (as my mom likes to say, 'not my boss but the big boss! can't remember what you call him, everyone has a frigging title now!) was standing right there when i walked in some 8 1/2 hours late. fuck me, you know. shit what could i say? 'sorry my gray hairs are really showing today' i thought i was suppose to work 4pm till midnight. hell, they were swamped, they didn't even blink, they just smiled and said "we can always use you, 4pm to midnight?, that sounds great. go to 10."

high-hoe high-hoe, it's off to work i go..
i couldn't believe their response.

than i get home from work and notice that the beer fairy came to visit. i opened up my fridge and there is a 30 pack of beer inside. wow! my mind starts roaming. my hubby must have bought it, still wants to get me drunk and take advantage of me after 20 plus years together! so i walk into our bedroom to thank him and he said "I didn't buy you any beer. i thought you bought it. it was in there when i got home...."
wtf?
hope it wasn't the yard guys! no they come on Thursdays....
it's not spring break yet, so i know it wasn't my son...
thanks beer fairy, who ever you are!

finders keepers, losers weepers
i'm thirsty.

today was a golf day for me and i'm really starting to get into the swing of things. my husband and i went to our city golf course today. it has a really nice driving range plus a mini three hole practice course that kinda horse shoes around the driving range. it's perfect for wild ball whackers like myself.

last week we took my young nephew to play with us. he looked like a pro compared to me, but that's okay. i really enjoy it. today my husband was in an odd mood. he seemed rushed and flustered yet at the same time acting as if nothing was wrong. i wasn't suppose to notice he was in a hurry? i thought we were going to spend several hours when we only stayed at the golf course for about one. (and no, it doesn't take me an hour to play 3 holes of golf! once we pay the fee we can repeat them as many times as we like.)

needless to say that after one round he was ready to go.

"but only if you want to leave.... dear. what do you want to do?"
"i want to hit a bucket of balls. "

so i did. i whacked a small bucket of balls while he sat on the tailgate of the truck. was he embarrassed because i was such a poor player? i couldn't figure out why he was so impatient.
i was in a good mood and i couldn't figure out why he was not in a good mood yet pretending to be in a good mood...

"just do it like this..... dear...."
"keep your head down and your arms straight.... dear.."
" you're only hitting the top of the ball... dear.."

i think that my husband likes to play golf but with men equal to his skill level.
i am not that.
once i learn how to play maybe....

but for now, i think i'll clock most of my practice hours alone or with my young nephew. besides he thinks it's hilarious that instead of soaring through the sky my ball just rolls two feet in front of me. reminds me of a song "like an old meatball, all covered in cheese...."
is it possible for golf balls to have phobias?
opps i whacked again, let me slice and dice that for you...
birdie birdie in the sky, how come my ball won't fly...

A long, long time ago,

My best friend spent the night at my house. She recently returned home from orchestra camp. We talked for hours locked away in my room. she was telling me all the exciting details of her summer. she shared one escapade after another about this boy and the great romance, the bold and daring meeting, that lead to the perfect first kiss.

When she finally came to the end of those long tales of camp, i was silent for a second or two before we both burst into laughter. my childhood girlfriend was a gt (gifted and talented) kid. She was even more spectacular in person than all the stories she made up for my entertainment.

As usual, she managed to bring excitement, thrills and adventure to my ordinarily dark and gloomy childhood. sunshine on a cloudy day. That is just one reason, out of millions more, why she is still today and always will be, my dearest friend.

not enough

surviving is not enough.
not really.
what is that bullshit line of the century, ‘that which does not kill you shall make you stronger..’
really? Sound like nothing but a load of crap to me because if it were true I would be miss fucking universe or something but instead I am a nobody from nowhere hiding in the dark.

that is how life is. or should I say, that is how my life is. you can feel it really. when you are born into the pit of hell and you have to fight every day for your soul and your sanity and someway you manage to survive, with a few missing parts and a few broken pieces, plaster and putty, hiding the empty holes..
hiding..
but that was not enough....

no....
not nearly enough, for your childhood is just the beginning.
you must move on, continue forward
you must apply what you learned in the real world. you must go outside, kill the demons , make a comfortable place in the world.
u go girl.
the little family home is not big enough.
money money money money.
i’ve done all I can do at home, now I must learn how to make money.
no problemo...


I remember how I felt when my father died in 1995. I had been waiting for years, thinking and believing that when it happened, when he finally died, that I would be free. that this tremendous burden would be lifted off my soul and I would be free to live my life with carefree abandonment. happy ever after were just lies and bullshit. Needless to say it didn’t work out like I had visualized it. Instead of my burdens vanishing into nothingness, my mind was flooded with horrible memories and flashbacks.
i knew my kinks and my quirks. I knew why I carefully chose to do almost everything that I did. I knew why I reacted and responded to certain thing in certain ways. I knew most of my triggers.
but that was not enough....
no...

where was the freedom? where was my power to overcome? it never failed me when I was a small child and the events were actually happening. so why were the memories so disabling? it was all in my head. why couldn’t I just blink and change the thoughts floating around inside my brain. why couldn’t I just not think about something I didn’t want to think about? For years I use books, cable tv, movies, music, video games, and the computer as my mind altering drugs.
But that was not enough…
no...

Avoiding unresolved issues only lengthens the time it takes to heal. I was trying to fix my adult problems by using my old childhood tools. perhaps because i never allowed myself to feel the reality of the moment the first time around it caused the flashbacks to become a wicked bitch-slap in the face.

happiness is a state of mind. scars are a statement of reality. I am strong. I know I have the ability to survive. Yet from the moment I was born I have been waiting to die. To leave and move on, go back to where I came from, to that better place in the sky, that heavenly place my mother told me stories about...

the truth is i’ve never been afraid to die, i'm afraid to live.

But that is not enough….
no....

I want more than the happy ending.
I want my life,
my whole life,
and nothing but my life
so help me God

stamp of love

Rarely did my mother go out when we were young. So when she did she made the very most of it. Mom loved to get all dolled up. She would do her hair, nails, makeup, fancy girl clothes, you know, the works. It was always an all day affair. It took time to transform from an ordinary house wife into an extraordinary beauty queen. She just loved the entire process. I remember how she was happy and excited and her mood was so contagious.

It would start early in the morning with the washing and rolling of her long brown hair. She had these huge bright green plastic rollers. They had holes in them big enough for me to stick the tip of my pinky finger inside. The giant curlers came with these gray hair clips with little plastic tips on the ends so they wouldn’t scratch the scalp. Mom would use a comb to part a section of her hair. Roll her wet hair tightly around the large curler and secure it in place with a clip. Sometimes mom would hold her pins in her mouth as she rolled her hair up. Sometimes my sisters and I would hold them for her, hand them to her, when needed. She repeated the process over and over again till her entire head was completely covered and there wasn’t a stray hair to be found. After that she would cover her head with a silky multicolored floral scarf. It was nothing to go to the grocery store and see other mom’s with their hair done up the exact same way, curlers and scarves.

In the afternoon, Mom would give herself a manicure and a pedicure. this always require a lot of tools. nail files and clippers, cotton balls and Q-tips, with many little bottles of nail polish. She would lay out a wash rag and neatly line everything out. She would soak her feet in a basin of warm water with some secret potion to make her skin silky soft. than my mom would paint her finger nails a deep ruby red. my sisters and I would always be ready and waiting with the Q-tips and a bottle of nail polish remover just in case she painted outside the lines.

in the evening when it was an hour or so before time to go she would begin her make-up. Mom stood in her slip with her back to us. our eyes would be glued to her reflection in the mirror. she always made funny faces as she put on her makeup. she would start by smearing beige lipstick under her eyes. why are you putting lipstick under your eyes? lip stick goes on you lips. my older sister would laugh and say no silly that isn’t lip stick, it’s cover up stick. you use it to cover up the dark circles under her eyes. she would pluck her eyebrows than darken them with a pencil. brush on eye shadow and glue on false eyelashes. blush time was funny face time. she would stretch her jaw, raise her eyebrows high on her forehead and paint her cheeks .
the lip stick always caused a giggle or two. how could it not make us laugh with the big O mouth, try to stay in the lines, than the big toothy grin to make sure no red lipstick on the pearly whites.

Way back when, big hair was in. to have big hair you have to tease and tease and tease some more. my mother’s dark brown hair was long and thick. it took some time to tease it all. My sister’s and I always giggled when she had all her hair sticking straight up on end before she began to gentle brush it down in again.

why do you brush your hair back down after you spent all that time teasing it up mommy? she would look at me and laugh, ‘well don’t you think (tink) they (dey)would laugh at me if I went to the(de) party with my hair sticking up?’

she smelled of hair spray, face powers , and jean-nate. a light sweet fragrance that always defined mom.
My sister’s and I were the four little Indians watching mom put on her war paint. some days we would be there from beginning to end. other days one of us would just happen by and see that she was holding her hair pick in one hand and the tube of V05 in another and run screaming down to the hall, “mom’s teasing her hair! mom’s teasing her hair!” and of course we would all race into watch her finish.

mom would dance the gig getting into her panty hose, slip into her party dress and high heel shoes, turn and look at us all.
“so, how do I look?”
“Beautiful!”
and she was.
and she still is.

she would give us each a kiss on the cheek.
mom’s lip prints,
a stamp of her love