Freestyle December 26, 2009

My posting rate has been positively abominable.  Initially, being disorganized was the culprit.  Disorganization morphed into being legitimately busy, and that blossomed into “it’s been so long since I’ve posted, what the hell should I write about?”  Somewhere in the midst of that, mind-depression.  This bout was weird, because it wasn’t from a source.  It wasn’t of the, “Well, you ain’t shit anyway” variety.  It was just me not knowing which end was up and slowly slipping into a world where I didn’t care.

I don’t like sharing much of my depression with my friends because I don’t like baring that part of myself.  I don’t mind letting them know that I’m sad.  I don’t mind letting them know when I’m angry.  Depressed? Eh, that’s usually a game time decision that I usually don’t share until I’m coming out of it.

This last time, I think I was trying to commit suicide by gravy.  The amount of weight I’ve gained in the past four months has been nothing short of astounding.  I keep making these plans and small moves in an attempt to improve my lot, but thus far, nada.  Before anyone suggests a group, I feel the need to express this sentiment:  If pitted with the choices of joining a fat person hugging circle where I tell them how I finger fuck chicken and cookies, or skinning myself alive, point me to the most sharpest potato peeler, and I’ll effectively make it happen.  Yes, I know that group therapy is helpful etc., but I’ve spent my entire life being transparent and part of a team.  I really want to focus on me, possibly with the help of a private therapist and go for what I know.  Fellow fat people, I’m really not interested in why you eat your feelings.  Sorry.

I’m so tired of lace front wigs, I swear.  Factually, it’s none of my business what people do with their hair, but I do care what’s done to my eyes.  I’ve even given that perpetual fresh oil sheen look a name:  “wig gloss.”  There are a million and one reasons that a woman would wear a wig, ranging from medical necessity to just wanting something different.  None of those reasons fall within the realm of my business, and I won’t presume to opine why women wear them.  But just like I would be bored if I went to a thousand restaurants and all of them had oatmeal a the main course, I’ve grown weary of wig gloss.

I never built a Lego project.  Same for blocks.  My mind was never really creative in that way.  My daughter is extremely artistic, with a great eye for colors, shading and shapes.  I guess she got it from my younger sister, because I certainly have no expertise in that regard.  I was so glad when she outgrew the phase of wanting me to draw and color with her.  I guess it was around the time that she discovered I suck at it.

I either need to strike it rich or marry rich.  My bosses gifted me with $300 at Aveda, which is one of my favorite stores.  Their hair products are divine.  The fact that they are botanically based is a major plus for me.  I’m sort of cheating, because I’m a Mary Kay consultant, and MK has a spectacular product line as well, but there’s no harm in seeing what the competition is working with, particularly when it is gratis.  The reason I say I need to be rich though, is the fact that I went through that gift certificate like it was NOTHING.  But buying things that make me feel pretty help me with my feelings sometimes.

Yesterday, Mother Nature gave me a Christmas “present.”  What do you do when Mother Nature tells you “Merry Christmas, bitch!”  My boobs are in extraordinary pain.  That’s really not a good look.

I can’t believe it’s the end of 2009. We’re entering a new decade.  Incredible.  I don’t know that I’m any more or less reflective than I am on any given weekend, but I do know that there was a whole lot of allowed bullshit that took place in 2009 (and maybe part of 2008) that I just have no interest in.  Not because it’s a New Year, but because I just need to be made new.

You’ll be happy to know, however, that I’ve still been reading and writing.  There’s been a lot of work that I don’t plan on using currently.  I’m glad about my progress and the fact that I’m not giving up.  I pray that my tenacity bear fruit.

“Life is a Beautiful Struggle” (c) Talib Kweli December 24, 2009

That’s one of the truest sayings.  I’ve been feeling it.  This year has been ROUGH on your girl emotionally.  But I made it through.  So the plan is to get back into this writing thing, since I kind of fancy myself a writer, and make some things happen for 2010.

I owe you guys a million posts, and I hope to at least get one in tonight…but I also have to make gumbo, sooooo…I’ll holla!

Hey kid…your mom’s a trollop December 9, 2009

Yesterday, Ladybug came home with star shaped sticky notes.  She always goes bananas for sticky notes, and they typically last for two days, when we’re lucky. Needless to say, yesterday, we were covered in sticky notes.  Lids, arms, cheeks, notebooks, the computer – it was sticky note mania in our house.

Finally, she takes the remaining pad of sticky notes and puts them on her chest, and I mentally freak.  “Does my kid know about pasties?  What the hell has she been watching?  Friggin internet!  The hell is going on here?!”  I’m shocked, awed, appalled and disgusted.  How did I allow my sweet child to be exposed to the insidious entity that is the life of the pole dancer.  Then, she utters five simple words.  Words that cause me to question every decision I have made, from birth until this very moment.

“Look Mommy! I’m the sheriff!”

Most disturbing is the fact that her being a sheriff never even dawned on me.

Really kid?  You’re a sheriff?  Well, guess what, Sunshine?  Your mom’s a whore.

Because there’s got to be something better December 9, 2009

For the past three days, I’ve sat at my computer to type a new post.  Painstakingly, I combed through my subconscious to bring you the hotness.  I’m a girl who loves to provoke meaningful conversation.  (Note: Even idle chatter can be meaningful.  Sometimes the cabeza needs a siesta to allow the hotness to float to the surface.) Unfortunately, my spirit whispered two words to me:  Tiger Woods.  (Or “Tigah Woo” if you are Peoples Hernandez.)  And yet, there’s no way in hell I’m going to go on a tirade about him.  Nor will I rail against infidelity.  Because most of us can’t even master the art of sharing an elevator with one another, so how on earth can we share our lives?

Several months ago, my writing partner and I were waxing philosophical regarding the way adults deal with one another.  He made one of the most powerful observations I’ve heard to date:

Essentially, adults are just large, beaten down, world-weary children.

We don’t want to be hurt.  We want to be appreciated.  We want to be desired.  We want to appear strong…As children, we learn that honesty in the form of vulnerability, confusion, etc. will attract the ridicule of others.

And there you have it.  Far too many of us are occupying our time being that same frightened child, rather than evolving into an adult, complete with the necessary tools to face adversity.  The level of honesty required to confront our demons, and allow our wounds to heal and become scars, is uncomfortable for most.  Instead, we choose the road of petulance; defiantly upholding anti-social behavior is the norm.  And until we get to the root cause of this (which forms in our psyches long before our first ill-fated run in with puppy love), we will remain emotional thumb suckers.  We fail at being lovers, because we fail at being friends. And we fail at being friends, because we fail at being neighbors.

We abandon the golden rule, and instead of treating those as we would have ourselves treated, we treat them as we have been treated.  What does that say for progress?

My kingdom for the delight of peppermint bark… November 30, 2009

…and a crush on a boy.  I think it’s so funny that I am crushless.  I like desire.  I like not wanting anybody else, so that when I think about him, I’ll touch myself (I loved that song to the point of embarrassment).  And yet…yeah.  The singleness is normal to me.  I’m mostly unaffected by it.  But being without a crush?  *Melodramatic back of hand to the forehead maneuver* I simply can’t bear it.

Okay, I can.  But I don’t like it.  Where are the dashing out of reach brothers?  I find myself mired in a whole lot of pomposity, assholery, and generalized douche baggery.  What does one do with that?

Where the brothers with easy smiles, kindly dispositions and pocket squares at?  (My “in my mind” dude, in addition to being in the depths of South America hunting El Chupacabra, wears pocket squares.)  What about a brother with a last name as a first name?  Is that too much to ask?  Jackson Washington, where art thou?  Your decision to hide yourself is giving me stress acne. not even microdermabrasion has helped.

But I was just kidding.  For a crush, I really can’t offer up my kingdom. Maybe we can settle on a stolen kiss, eh?

Seeking peace, seeking purpose November 29, 2009

I have been in such a mental cluster lately.  I’m not out of it.  Not by a long shot.  I’m pretty sure that some of my issues stem from my recent birthday.  Others come from my autumn blues, in part related to the 15th anniversary of my mother’s passing.  Still others relate to the fact that I have VAST life improvements to make.  I’m setting a goal list, and for now, I’m taking baby steps.  Though I know where I want to be next SUMMER, I want to see if bite sized chunky goals will help me.  Rather than saying, “In June I want to be [miscellaneous],” I’m giving “At the end of this month, I want to have accomplished this step in furtherance of my goal.”

I feel like someone is playing jacks with my life, and they’re only on threesies. I’m having that time of life where I look up and think, “What in the seven shits am I doing here?”  Not here as in my locale, here as in this space, this station.  This past week, I’ve had two heart to hearts with good friends, and we talked about getting what we DESIRE out of life.  Not just what we need.

This morning, I was speaking to my cousin about our motivations, and I divulged that I have lost the desire to prove.  I don’t feel the need to prove that I am a great writer, a loving mother, a beautiful soul, or even the baddest bitch.  I simply am those things, and the pissing contest that is often the mistaken as the manifestation of these qualities is lost on me.  No one can remove what you know to be so.  It is very important to be modest, but I find it equally important to believe that you can move mountains.  When you are rightly motivated, you WILL move mountains.

What is the “right” motivation?  I would not be so presumptuous as to believe that I have all the answers, but here is the right answer for me.  I want my success to be a conduit to the happiness of others.  I want people to look at me, and be inspired by the fact that a regular girl from around the way accomplished this.  I don’t have the desire to be shinin’ so I can make them sick.  I want them to see me shine, search themselves, and produce their own light.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
- Marianne Williamson

Just as an aside November 27, 2009

And somehow, they love me...

My birthday was Tuesday.  I am now 33.  I think that has been a bit of a distraction.  This year, I partied a big, but I spent a lot of time in reflection, trying to figure out how to right the shit that’s gone left, and how to steady the things that are going as they should.  I have no answers right about now.  I do know that I need to lose a trillion pounds.  But I also know that I wore the most smokin pair of shoes I’ve ever owned.

Yes, I hurt one of my toes. Woo Woo Woo.

Sexy right?  Damn skippy.  Shoe game handled.  Now I have to get on my food journal game.

I’ve been trying to get down to the heart of the matter November 9, 2009

I’ve been tryin’ to get down to the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
And my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think it’s about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore
- Don Henley

If you’ve been missing me, it’s because instead of being here, I’ve been here.  I’m trying to broaden my writing endeavors, and in the coming months, I hope to have some juicy tidbits over at Naked Admonition. It’s a partner blog with A.C.T. of Blaxplanation, to ultimately serve as a communication bridge between men and women.

Let’s talk a bit about letting go.  That is some of the hardest shit to do in the world.  I recently came to the realization that, though I’m pretty good at keeping my life going in the midst of adversity, loss or heartbreak, actually letting go is not my strong point.  I can cry about things that happened years ago for no other reason than the fact that I’m having a bad day.

Recently, on one of those bad days, I began thinking of a person in my past that hurt me, somewhat out of the blue.  This hurt has never quite fit in the scar category, because a scar is a badge representing your ability to heal.  I was fully prepared, at the outset of this post, to detail why I was so hurt by him and so destroyed by him, and there was a barrage of “how could/dare hes.” Yeah.  No.  Because it is SO water under the bridge and irrelevant.

The tricky thing is that I love him still.  Not in the “in love” way.  I can get past hurt feelings; a broken heart is a horse of another color.  But that being said, logically, I should hate him, and that’s something that just isn’t in me to do.  And so I have accepted the fact that I will always love him.  I will always want the best for him.  I have also accepted that if I want to have any progress in my emotional life, I have to let those emotions be. I’ll send nothing but positive vibes his way, but the past is just that.  I owe myself that much.

As the great negro poet Shawn Carter says, “I wish for you a hundred years of success, but it’s my time.”

Oh my damn October 31, 2009

I had a post planned for today.  it was deep and insightful and gave you a peek into my soul.  I was goign to talk about how I can’t deal with dishonesty or something.  That was before the wine.  Before the Spanish Spanish wine (yes, “Spanish” was written twice intentionally).  Crianza folks.  Crianza is the truth.  Crianza is what made me forget that I wanted to preach.  It just makes me want to be.  So much wine tonight.  so much good music.  I had such a rough day today, so I was glad to enjoy my own company.  I look forward to reading this post tomorrow and finding an embarrassing typo.

Smooches.

P.S.  Does anyone have any sexual intercourse that they can pass me?  I’m fresh out.  Thanks.

I got… October 28, 2009

It’s impossible to convey the importance music holds in my life.  My artistic slumps almost inevitably lead to secular and emotional slumps as well.  In yesterday’s post, I discussed feeling disconnected, and I’m working to fix that.  But yesterday, while discussing music, someone posted a lady I enjoy calling “My Nina,” and it seemed to fit so perfectly in my life right now.

So, I’m chubby, I haven’t finished my book, I don’t own a home, blah blah, blah blah, blah BLAH! I’ve got life. I’ve got a day to become closer to whatever goal I fell short of the day before. I’ve got a SHOT. I’ve got a day to eat my veggies, write a new paragraph, and save a couple of dollars. I’ve got the strength to pray for wisdom and endurance. I’ve got the heart to admit I’m scared and the balls to slay dragons. I’ve got the eyes to seek that which encourages me. I’ve got the nerve to demand that people not waste my time and let them know that I call the shots on what I’m worth. I’ve got the clarity to count my blessings. I’ve got the sugar and water to turn lemons into lemonade. I’ve got bad ass shoes. I’ve got the ability to find the best pairs of $4 earrings. I’ve got good friends. I’ve got good family. I’ve got rhythm, music and daisies in green pastures. I’ve got the feeling that if Nina Simone’s voice can’t take you to a new place, then you’re missing major shit in your soul.

AND

I’ve got my boobies. *giggle*