I have one thing to say: Vicadin, Vicidan ... however it is spelled ... sucks. Your back aches, your sister says, "Here, this will help." You take it, and in 20 minutes you are transported to Magic MushroomLand. I like CindyLand better; it's kind of like CandyLand but less sweet, sort of tangy, but not bitter.
It's good though to try something once and fully determine that you won't try it again. I've always been more of a If-I-don't-like-it-once, I'll-try-it-twice sort of person, but now that I think about it that only pertains to foods, like octopus. I love octopus. Hate Vicodan. (Whatever. Spell check approves none of them.)
I'm losing it. Christmas is in two days and we are packing to move in six. The punch: we haven't found a place to rent. What the hell. Looks like we are going back to Oceanside into our original condo; which isn't all bad, it's 400 steps from the water. Yessssssssssssssss.
Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Five months in Chula Vista.
Mia said, “Write like your life depends on it.” I’m not quite there, but my feet are sinking in the hot dirt - I can see tiny trails of dust stirring from my movement.
I’ve gotten fat since we moved from the water. I get fat when I’m unhappy. My heart’s crying for the ocean. I hear tears splattering against the inside of my chest. I want to run to the shore and put my toes into its perimeters. I want water kisses from the Pacific. Beautiful, blue, wet kisses. I’m afraid if I leave it this time I might possibly wither into death. I know what my oxygen’s are; my children and the ocean are a few. Oxygen keeps us alive.
On a completely unrelated note: I’ve begun to only trust the numbers … the words consistently lie. Show me the chemistry, an equation, that concludes that vinegar possesses the same bacteria-killing properties as chlorine bleach. I want to see the microscopic plate proving death by vinegar. Is rice fermentation the equivalent of a rotted apple? How many days must a fruit brown and assault our senses? Show me, add and subtract – prove the math.
I think about this stuff. I obsess really. Is this worry? I guess if you don’t stop thinking about something that makes you somewhat fearful, then you are worrying. It seems like such a simple concept, to stop worrying, doesn’t it? You just say, "Hey. No more of that thought pattern." The protection of the environment is killing me. I see headlines, "Environment survives, concerned being dies from worry, exhaustion and possible fruit infection. Funeral at the landfill, Wednesday at 2 p.m."
Our house is rented. We must move on. Chula Vista could never have become home, it's too far from the water.
I’ve gotten fat since we moved from the water. I get fat when I’m unhappy. My heart’s crying for the ocean. I hear tears splattering against the inside of my chest. I want to run to the shore and put my toes into its perimeters. I want water kisses from the Pacific. Beautiful, blue, wet kisses. I’m afraid if I leave it this time I might possibly wither into death. I know what my oxygen’s are; my children and the ocean are a few. Oxygen keeps us alive.
On a completely unrelated note: I’ve begun to only trust the numbers … the words consistently lie. Show me the chemistry, an equation, that concludes that vinegar possesses the same bacteria-killing properties as chlorine bleach. I want to see the microscopic plate proving death by vinegar. Is rice fermentation the equivalent of a rotted apple? How many days must a fruit brown and assault our senses? Show me, add and subtract – prove the math.
I think about this stuff. I obsess really. Is this worry? I guess if you don’t stop thinking about something that makes you somewhat fearful, then you are worrying. It seems like such a simple concept, to stop worrying, doesn’t it? You just say, "Hey. No more of that thought pattern." The protection of the environment is killing me. I see headlines, "Environment survives, concerned being dies from worry, exhaustion and possible fruit infection. Funeral at the landfill, Wednesday at 2 p.m."
Our house is rented. We must move on. Chula Vista could never have become home, it's too far from the water.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Hey Jodie ...
While you are still their whole life, let the kids fill up your sad places. Just remember they will break your heart, maybe lie to you, but they will remember that you loved them and they will come back when they are done being kids. You can be the one person on the planet that they can count on to lean on.
We all need one person.
Happy Birthday. I'm glad you're on this planet; you are a beautiful person and I love you exactly the way you are.
We all need one person.
Happy Birthday. I'm glad you're on this planet; you are a beautiful person and I love you exactly the way you are.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Girlie Men
It’s late, I’m exhausted and even though I had a million thoughts today, I can’t think of a single thing to write about. I could write about how it was 7:11 this morning and it seemed too early to get started with the day. I forced my eyes shut and awoke again at 9:22 – much more reasonable. I made in-the-bed phone calls. I was comfortable and I had simple questions. People were suspicious of my sultry voice and asked what I was doing. My reply was nothing because I was doing nothing.
It might be better if I wrote about my phone conversation with my son where he again accused me of trying to make him gay – this has become a habitual statement - it just kills me. It cracks me up. It’s effing hilarious. I told him of a recent conversation with a 25-year-old Verizon manager with divine blue eyes who confided in me that as a child, and the youngest son, his sisters would decorate him in dresses. He didn’t really seem that distressed but now I wonder if he too is harboring secret anger and goddamn it, very soon his family is going to pay. (Strangers tell me things, and I’m not sure yet why they feel the necessity of sharing – it’s … kind of weird but I kind of like it.)
I reminded my son that I never put him in dresses and he said, “You dressed me as a girl.”
“Not true,” I replied.
“You did. You put me in Demi’s pink outfit!”
I reminded him that was an emergency situation involving a lack-of-toilet issue and a lack of backup clothing – he was six. For 16 years he has believed that because he had a human accident and had to wear a Tweety Bird, pink and white checkered outfit, with a darling little hood on it, for an hour tops, (I drove home immediately) that I tried to make him gay. Jesus. Where’s Bill Nye?
Quickly, I asked if the phone was clicking on his end because my end was. He said he heard clicking too, and I told him to hang up immediately because the government was listening in. He laughed, paused, and said, “Seriously?”
I laughed and said, “No! Gay!” (I didn’t, but I wanted to in the worst possible way.)
The only thing I can establish about this day is that if in the future, I, or someone cruel and trippy like myself, solicit you to wear something pink and Disney related – I REPEAT - IF IT IS GENDER SPECIFIC CLOTHING, DO NOT PUT IT ON UNLESS YOU WANT TO CHANGE YOUR SEXUAL PREFERENCES. I have religious and scientific evidence that you will be traumatized and possibly permanently skewed. (Sorry about the pink clothes buddy; nobody knows, it’s our secret – shhh.)
It might be better if I wrote about my phone conversation with my son where he again accused me of trying to make him gay – this has become a habitual statement - it just kills me. It cracks me up. It’s effing hilarious. I told him of a recent conversation with a 25-year-old Verizon manager with divine blue eyes who confided in me that as a child, and the youngest son, his sisters would decorate him in dresses. He didn’t really seem that distressed but now I wonder if he too is harboring secret anger and goddamn it, very soon his family is going to pay. (Strangers tell me things, and I’m not sure yet why they feel the necessity of sharing – it’s … kind of weird but I kind of like it.)
I reminded my son that I never put him in dresses and he said, “You dressed me as a girl.”
“Not true,” I replied.
“You did. You put me in Demi’s pink outfit!”
I reminded him that was an emergency situation involving a lack-of-toilet issue and a lack of backup clothing – he was six. For 16 years he has believed that because he had a human accident and had to wear a Tweety Bird, pink and white checkered outfit, with a darling little hood on it, for an hour tops, (I drove home immediately) that I tried to make him gay. Jesus. Where’s Bill Nye?
Quickly, I asked if the phone was clicking on his end because my end was. He said he heard clicking too, and I told him to hang up immediately because the government was listening in. He laughed, paused, and said, “Seriously?”
I laughed and said, “No! Gay!” (I didn’t, but I wanted to in the worst possible way.)
The only thing I can establish about this day is that if in the future, I, or someone cruel and trippy like myself, solicit you to wear something pink and Disney related – I REPEAT - IF IT IS GENDER SPECIFIC CLOTHING, DO NOT PUT IT ON UNLESS YOU WANT TO CHANGE YOUR SEXUAL PREFERENCES. I have religious and scientific evidence that you will be traumatized and possibly permanently skewed. (Sorry about the pink clothes buddy; nobody knows, it’s our secret – shhh.)
Hairy
My eyebrows have gotten out of control.
I have one of those super-duper magnifying mirrors, and a few weeks ago I decided that my brows were looking like a forgotten autumn garden. I wanted them to grow just a little more; I wanted more of a crop. So, I let them go. It’s not going so well. Correction, I thought it was going well until I looked into that blasted mirror this afternoon.
Without the mirror I definitely had the whole Frida Kahlo deal happening, and it was a little disturbing to be honest with you, but you gotta see these things through. Close up, in that mirror: Abe Lincoln. Carl Malden. Dear God, help me, I have Albert Einstein eyebrows. I ran for a tape measure for the utmost mathematical accuracy. I had a hair hanging over my eye, attached to my skin that measured a smidgen over one-half inch. I’m a woman for Christ’s sake how is this possible? Okay, okay! There were several. More than a couple. What’s happening? Am I alone here? Anybody out there?
I am all alone. I am me - Long Brows. I recommend the magnification of one’s face; just don’t take it personally when it’s all over with. Be thankful that you saw it before somebody else. The bastards can be cruel.
I need a professional facial hair person. I drove to a cosmetic surgeon’s office; it was 1:24 this afternoon. (I noticed their sign after a dentist’s appointment awhile back, in the beautiful, tall, tiled building with warning signs posted that say, “Watch for falling tile.” I’m not kidding.) The damn door was locked, lights off. I don’t understand what’s happening. I have questions. I need answers. First, somebody tell me why a new, ten-story building was tiled with eight by eight squares using bad glue. Who does that?
I need a professional facial hair person, everything else will fall into place. Where will it fall? Nobody's quite sure yet; they've left the building. Shit's falling; shit's growing. What's one to do?
I have one of those super-duper magnifying mirrors, and a few weeks ago I decided that my brows were looking like a forgotten autumn garden. I wanted them to grow just a little more; I wanted more of a crop. So, I let them go. It’s not going so well. Correction, I thought it was going well until I looked into that blasted mirror this afternoon.
Without the mirror I definitely had the whole Frida Kahlo deal happening, and it was a little disturbing to be honest with you, but you gotta see these things through. Close up, in that mirror: Abe Lincoln. Carl Malden. Dear God, help me, I have Albert Einstein eyebrows. I ran for a tape measure for the utmost mathematical accuracy. I had a hair hanging over my eye, attached to my skin that measured a smidgen over one-half inch. I’m a woman for Christ’s sake how is this possible? Okay, okay! There were several. More than a couple. What’s happening? Am I alone here? Anybody out there?
I am all alone. I am me - Long Brows. I recommend the magnification of one’s face; just don’t take it personally when it’s all over with. Be thankful that you saw it before somebody else. The bastards can be cruel.
I need a professional facial hair person. I drove to a cosmetic surgeon’s office; it was 1:24 this afternoon. (I noticed their sign after a dentist’s appointment awhile back, in the beautiful, tall, tiled building with warning signs posted that say, “Watch for falling tile.” I’m not kidding.) The damn door was locked, lights off. I don’t understand what’s happening. I have questions. I need answers. First, somebody tell me why a new, ten-story building was tiled with eight by eight squares using bad glue. Who does that?
I need a professional facial hair person, everything else will fall into place. Where will it fall? Nobody's quite sure yet; they've left the building. Shit's falling; shit's growing. What's one to do?
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Nice after 10 a.m.
November 30, 2009
The whole thing with disconnecting the Internet from your house - is tough! I am accomplishing what I wanted: I am focused and we are moving forward, working and learning. Twice this week the whole family was sitting together in the living room just talking. No shit. So, there is definitely that positive side to the situation. However, today I feel like whining about the shitty side.
My mom called at 9:10 a.m. “Are you sleeping?”
“No, I’m in the garage doing laundry,” I replied. Doing laundry in the garage is weird to me. It’s a warm weather thing, I know – it doesn’t change the weirdness for me.
We proceeded to talk; me being passionate that I am, rose above an acceptable range of emotion and was a little hurt that my niece didn’t call me to ask for a personal favor. Hurt, because I would do anything for my nieces and nephews. I was there while they grew; I know these kids; I love these kids. It felt like they didn’t know it, and I was a little disappointed. Have I let them down? I try to remember every birthday and I give them random “Good night, I love you” texts. Have I been careless with them? If so, I am sorry. Sorry.
Is it me? Or have others been careless with me? I think we’ve all participated.
I couldn’t give mom the response she wanted, and I don’t like to let my mom down, but at this stage I have to stand my ground. It’s not about love. I love her.
The conversation didn’t go well, but it didn’t get out of control either. I had commented early in the conversation that I wait until after 10 a.m. to call people because they tend to me nicer. Near the end of the call, mom gracefully asked what time it was in California. I said, “I’ve got 45 minutes to go.”
She said, “I’ll call you back.” We said goodbye. I think this story ended perfectly well, thank you very much.
The whole thing with disconnecting the Internet from your house - is tough! I am accomplishing what I wanted: I am focused and we are moving forward, working and learning. Twice this week the whole family was sitting together in the living room just talking. No shit. So, there is definitely that positive side to the situation. However, today I feel like whining about the shitty side.
My mom called at 9:10 a.m. “Are you sleeping?”
“No, I’m in the garage doing laundry,” I replied. Doing laundry in the garage is weird to me. It’s a warm weather thing, I know – it doesn’t change the weirdness for me.
We proceeded to talk; me being passionate that I am, rose above an acceptable range of emotion and was a little hurt that my niece didn’t call me to ask for a personal favor. Hurt, because I would do anything for my nieces and nephews. I was there while they grew; I know these kids; I love these kids. It felt like they didn’t know it, and I was a little disappointed. Have I let them down? I try to remember every birthday and I give them random “Good night, I love you” texts. Have I been careless with them? If so, I am sorry. Sorry.
Is it me? Or have others been careless with me? I think we’ve all participated.
I couldn’t give mom the response she wanted, and I don’t like to let my mom down, but at this stage I have to stand my ground. It’s not about love. I love her.
The conversation didn’t go well, but it didn’t get out of control either. I had commented early in the conversation that I wait until after 10 a.m. to call people because they tend to me nicer. Near the end of the call, mom gracefully asked what time it was in California. I said, “I’ve got 45 minutes to go.”
She said, “I’ll call you back.” We said goodbye. I think this story ended perfectly well, thank you very much.
Oh God
You have not known beautiful weather unless you have spent a winter in southern California. The moment you walk out the door and the sunshine hits your face and bare toes; you breathe deeply and think, yes God, thank you for this one.
Don't forget every morning is the chance to start all over again. (Not my words.)
Sunshine is my drug. Dip me in an ocean a couple of times and you have a happy woman, bitch free.
Peace.
Don't forget every morning is the chance to start all over again. (Not my words.)
Sunshine is my drug. Dip me in an ocean a couple of times and you have a happy woman, bitch free.
Peace.
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