Freestyle

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

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

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

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?