I’ve moved. Catch me HERE
“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days…”
Or more like seven months since I last posted. And for that, I am sorry.
I’m sorry because what devoted readers I did have have probably forgotten my very existence.
I’m sorry because I have found myself in a maelstrom funk that has continuously tried to drown any creativity out of me since I’ve quit writing.
I’m sorry because the drama of my life still exists, and you’ve all missed out on the daily dose of neurosis.
So let me sum up:
My child is now a cheeky little shit, who’s favorite thing to do is yell “SHIT!” at the top of his lungs and giggle uncontrollably, or to get right in my face and mimic a howling monkey. Actually, he’s a pretty good kid, who loves me more than anyone else, so all the other stuff is alright.
I took my Rockstar to Vegas for my birthday, where we mostly had a fabulous time, other than the moments following my hour-long search for him during a concert, where he drunkenly cried, “Fuck you! Fuck you!” at me for no good reason. This was followed by my walking three miles down the Las Vegas Strip by myself in a tipsy rage, which was somewhat stabilized by the many offers of hugs (and money) I received. Whatever fun we did have was dampened by having a crazy man open fire on innocents from Mandalay Bay the very next day after we got home.
I’ve replaced my serving job with teenagers with a serving job with college students and am now suffering through the hell that is called Endless Shrimp. My coworkers all think I’m completely nuts, and I think they are not wrong.
I have in mind a new book series I must bring myself to work on, so it is yet to be determined whether my re-entrance to blogging will be successful.
To all of you that are still around, I’ve missed you, and will endeavor to try and get my muchness back.
P.S. In the meantime, enjoy a Halloween picture.
I remember thinking once,
“I’d never want him to produce my music.”
Fool that I was.
I didn’t realize then
that the sound I had mistaken for
messiness and chaos
was actually the character of mankind
caught on tape.
anthropology at its finest.
You entangled each one of us
in the snare of your guitar strings;
furiously jotted endless lyrical notes,
and then released us back
into the wild with a song.
You were an incomparable teacher;
you taught us to Gett Off,
what doves sound like when they cry,
and that not everything that glitters is Gold.
it seemed as though you even
controlled the weather-
it rained Purple;
it snowed in April.
A lesser man would have agonized over
such a petite figure;
but you strutted yours.
Ruffled, tailored, Purpled.
You masqueraded as a sex object,
and no one ever realized you were
preaching the Gospel while you did it.
You told us of a Park
where life won’t be so bad;
it was in our hearts,
but now we can tour the frickin’ place
for a hundred bucks.
I guess it’s just a Sign O’ the Times,
“The Beautiful Ones you always seem to lose.”
There are so many great things that come in two…
Burgers on a Big Mac, eyes, hands, elbows, boobies (since we’re on body parts), balls (unless you’re Lance Armstrong), twins, high heels…
… and my kid. There are not two of him, but he is now two.
Like, seriously, where the fuck did those two years go?!
I suppose they were lost in the melee of diapers, animal flashcards, and Playdoh. As much as I’d like to admit that I’m mostly the same person that I was before him, I really am not. I talk to other mothers about their kids now, (sporadically) and get a ridiculous thrill out of the fact that my boy mimics every word that comes out of my mouth. (I still retain my sailor’s vocabulary, but at least only I realize it when my kid is yelling “FUCK”. )
In other ways, I am still me. I don’t like to cook still, and very closely resemble Cher’s character in the movie Mermaids when it comes to preparing meals. (Finger foods, finger foods.) I still enjoy whiskey at times, and other assorted adult beverages, and sometimes wonder if, as he gets older, my kid will recognize the tell-tale signs of my tipsiness.
I am glad that I now have a little person to drag around to fun things like the zoo and the science museum, as I did not exactly enjoy coming off as a creeper/pedophile when frequenting such places before motherhood. Too, I like this having a young one to throw themed birthday parties for. (We just had a Dr. Seuss one.)
Clearly, I have lost my edge when it comes to writing, because it seems that I am rambling now, and have written a post of little or no interest, so I think it’s time to say goodbye for the night.
So farewell for now, dear readers. I just wanted to let you know I’m still around.
My esteemed Alan,
I would have referred to you as Al in my opening, since it feels as if I’ve known you since I was a wee thing, but you are English, and are much too refined for nicknames.
I wonder if you noticed that I refer to you in the present tense, despite the bitter fact that you left us one year ago today. I do so because, to me, you are very much alive on my movie shelf. I would like to thank you for that.
It’s true that you played an angel with no private parts in the movie Dogma, (a scene which, incidentally, is the only I remember of the entire movie) and a villain on several occasions, (Die Hard and Robin Hood); however, I will remember you most fondly as Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility. It is really quite odd- the first time I watched you in that role, I despised you immensely.
I remember, I was at a friend’s for her birthday party when I was fifteen, when all of us decided to watch that film. Given my age at the time, it makes sense that I did not immediately appreciate your less-than-obvious good looks. It was a time when Freddie Prinze Jr. was a more apparent heartthrob…
It was a few years later when I again watched Sense and Sensibility when I realized how perfectly you pined for Kate Winslet’s character- I actually ended up detesting her after realizing how rude she was to Colonel Brandon. Still, I suppose I should be happy that you finally got the girl, even though I find myself a little jealous.
My jealousy of fictional characters was only compounded by your portrayal of Professor Snape in all the Harry Potter films. My hatred for Snape in the first six films was completely wiped away in the last, where you instantly forever and “always” became my favorite character. (Oh, to be loved as Lily was…)
You also happened to star in my favorite Christmas movie, Love Actually. Though I have nothing to say about your performance because your character ended up being kind of a douche. I suppose you played the part well, since that was how we were supposed to feel about you?
I mustn’t forget your voice; that voice that resonates within my mind whenever you are mentioned- what am I supposed to do now when I finally write a screenplay that needs a man who’s voice can “talk a woman out of her knickers by just whispering her name, or scare the living shit out of children”?! Damn you and your pancreas, Alan!
I only jest, Mr. Rickman. I’m just upset that in a few short months I will be writing a similar letter to our dearly departed Prince. Although it’s nice to think that your rich, deep voice and his ridiculously high falsetto are blending in the far beyond.
It is a time for new resolutions. Paying off debt, losing weight, being kinder- that sort of thing. Lucky for me, I’ve come to realize that New Year’s Resolutions are bullshit, so I don’t have to do any of those things previously mentioned. HA
Sadly, my credit cards are pretty much maxed out, so I do desire to pay off my debt. Buuuut, I also desire to go to Rocklahoma, and hang out with all of my favorite bands. I also desire to buy (what many people would consider) unnecessary decorative items for my home. So I don’t know if I’m going to pay off debt this year or not, ok?
I am also of the age where my weight doesn’t much bother me anymore; though I do, at times, want to be an uber-hot mama that people gawk at. Fortunately, DDD boobs and a penchant for brightly-colored duds can accomplish pretty much the same thing.
However, my best friend is getting married in the end of February, and asked me last year to be one of her bridesmaids. Note, I said she asked me last year. Which means I had over 365 in which to shed the 65 or so pounds that would inhibit me from being one of the sexiest bridesmaids that ever lived. (Hey, just dream with me here.)
As if being on the chubby side wasn’t enough, her other bridesmaids could fit into a pair of my pants all at once. Dammit.
Now my bestie has always been quick to argue when I’ve been down on myself, so my fears of looking like a heifer in wedding pictures have naught to do with her. In fact, my girl even let us pick our own dresses- to let us show off our own personal style and not have us despise her for picking something we all look like shit it.
No, my insecurities are all of my own making.
So like any normal person, of course I took that year I had to slim down and buff up.
BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Just kidding.
Knowing myself as I know myself, I bought my dress (from China) in the size that I was at the time I bought it. Last year. And now, less than two months away from the wedding, I’m exactly (or maybe a tad bit more) the weight I was then.
It had been over nine months since I tried my dress on initially when I took it to the alterations lady a few weeks ago to get the tail bustled. After much sucking in and pulling back, it zipped, but just. After she measured for straps to hold up the busooms, I was thinking that, HEY! I look pretty good! (Yeah, ok, so I had to have her take my socks off because it was too tight to bend down. Shut up.)
Sadly, the next day, my neck and shoulders were completely jacked up from sucking in and bunching up. So, instead of being the super-sensuous bridesmaid I imagined in my head, I’ve settled for being able to sit during dinner and still being able to breathe, and maybe avoiding my armpit fat from photobombing the wedding party.
The thing I’ve discovered, though, is that the will power that once made me only eat three saltine crackers and a grape each day back in ninth grade has gone on permanent vacation. The simple fact that I’m trying (ok, not really) to lose weight makes me completely ravenous, to the point that I want to eat every single order of boneless wings that I serve to a table. (GAAWWWWWD, boneless wings sound amazing right now….)
I’ve told myself for the month of January, I will focus on eating less, and worry about shaping up in February. Unfortunately, since my daily diet rivals that of an African elephant, I’ve got quite a bit of cutting down to do.
To help keep my stomach from crying aloud with his own voice, (which I imagine sounds very like Boris Karloff) I’ve taken to drinking copious amounts of coffee mixed with way too many pink packets. Coffee is supposed to speed up your metabolism, they say. What they don’t say, is that coffee makes you pee like you’ve been drinking booze for seven days straight. And it probably doesn’t help that the sleep I’m supposed to be getting to help me trim down is interrupted by caffeine.
I just…. I just want to be skinny like I was when I thought I was fat.
(On the plus side, whenever I’ve shown a picture of me in my dress to anyone, their first reaction has always been, “Geez, your boobs look huge!” )
A bookwhore who never talks about books is no bookwhore at all, right? (Sidenote: you would think by now that my computer would know that bookwhore is so a word! And spelt correctly.)
So anywho, since I am feeling lazy and must soon sleep, I will share with you the books I read in 2016. Yay for me- there are almost twice as many as there were in 2015! It seems that my interest in biographies made itself manifest this past year. Enjoy!
Lolita by Vladimir Nabakov (I was more disturbed than I thought I would be while reading this, considering all the controversy I’d heard about it.)
The Antelope in the Living Room by Melanie Shankle (I bought this to give to my friend as part of her bridal shower gift; however, it sucked balls, so I didn’t.)
Lake Wobegon Days by Garrison Keillor (A native of my Minnesota, Garrison is, and went to high school with my Auntie for a minute. The best part of this book was that, while Lake Wobegon is a fictional town, all the towns surrounding it are very real, and are all towns I live near.)
Secret Diary of a Call Girl by Anonymous (This book was only interesting because the author’s sexual inclinations rival my own. That is not to say that I have been or will ever be paid to do those things I so like doing. )
I’m No Angel by Kylie Bisutti (written by a former Victoria’s Secret Angel who gave up her wings because of her religious beliefs; how easily she gave up something that some of us of shorter stature could never hope to achieve…)
The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern (Received as a Christmas present from my best friend- damn does she know how to pick ’em.)
Playground by Jennifer Saginor (growing up hanging out at the Playboy mansion was such a drag, having all those boobies about..)
Sex, Drugs, Ratt and Roll by Stephen Pearcy (Yet another attempt of mine to get my Rockstar reading; I think I actually enjoyed it more than he did.)
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (Great, of course.)
The Bride Stripped Bare by Nikki Gemmel (Another book I was going to gift to my friend as a bridal goof. I don’t remember much about it, except that I didn’t give it to her because it was horrible.)
The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff (A fictional telling of Brigham Young’s 19th wife. I learned a lot about them there Mormons.)
Whistling Past the Graveyard by Susan Crandell (Stolen from the bookshelf of my friend because of the title; a very fitting story to read during the times in which we live. I ended up suggesting it to my Aunt for her bookclub.)
Boundary Waters by William Kent Krueger (Another Minnesota author who I missed having lunch with because I was sick when my Auntie invited me to her silent auction winning.)
Kushiel’s Chosen by Jacqueline Carey (My only repeat read this year; I had planned on going to a masquerade based on the series, but alas, I spent all my moneys on books and glitter.)
Slade House by David Mitchell (This was read only because my friend denounced this book as the worst ever after HER friend raved about it. My friend was right.)
The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo by Amy Schumer (I really wanted to like it. Amy is a much better comedienne than she is a writer.)
Not That Kind of Girl by Lena Dunham (Sorry, Amy. Your friend Lena is much better at writing about her life in such a way that makes me want to keep reading about it.)
While Beauty Slept by Elizabeth Blackwell (Winner of my Surprising Find of the Year, seeing how I found it at THE DOLLAR TREE. So good. A superb retelling of a classic fairytale with none of that ridiculous fairytale bullshit. Did I mention Sleeping Beauty gets the pox?!?)
Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs (Because, ya know, the movie came out.)
I would not normally address such distasteful behavior as you have displayed, but at this time, I feel that I must.
It is true, comments that have been filtered into the junk pile automatically are of little consequence. In fact, since I have been absent from my blog of late, it may seem silly that I would even waste my time sifting through said comments. However, I recall a time when a complimentary remark was filtered by accident into that pit of desolation, so I have become accustomed to taking the time to reassure such a snafu is not repeated.
Which brings me to your wretched comments, Sir. (or Ma’am) It has come to my attention that you have found my “last several posts to be kinda boring” and these posts have been a “bit out of track.” Well, I am sorry.
I am sorry that you’ve been unable to (without my permission, I might add) “snatch my feed to keep updated”.
I’m sorry that you’ve forgotten how you raved about my writings in previous junk comments; using such words as “astonishing” and “extremely remarkable” to describe my posts.
I’m sorry that you “couldn’t depart my site prior to suggesting that you extremely enjoyed the standard information a person provide for my visitors.”
I’m sorry that your first language is clearly not English, and that you have obviously failed to find a suitable tutor to teach you how to properly use the English you do know.
I’m sorry that you buy junk vehicles, because in actuality I do not think you buy junk vehicles at all, since my junk feed is filled to overflowing with your ridiculous bipolar comments. It seems that you would have very little time to buy all the junk vehicles you so blatantly advertise in your email address.
I’m sorry that you will never meet me, because you were correct in your assumption that I am “an expert” on the subject of dancing babies. (Even though, by the title, I have no idea what that blog post was about.
In closing, I would like to state that I most certainly will not “come on”, as you so boorishly urged me, and I will write about WHATEVER the fuck I want whenever the fuck I want to- writings which are always fucking fabulous and “astonishing.” (OK, I can’t be mad at that last word you used.)
No Regards Whatsoever,
Have a holiday-spirited repost. XOXO
a boner-er in my coochie.
On the second day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me
two stillettos and a boner-er in my coochie.
On the third day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me
three french fries, two stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me
four brand new books, three french fries, two stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me
FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! Four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me
six sparkly dresses, FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my Rockstar…
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I know what it feels like
to hold the Sun now.
As I cup his beloved face,
my hands are warmed by
the most brilliant of smiles;
my arms tingle with the heat of it.
The fire spreads through my body
and I feel like Icarus,
burning up from such close proximity.
The flames of this
dance in my muscles,
causing me to hold him
a little tighter than I should.
His tiny doll’s hand reaches out
to hold my cheek,
and I wonder if he feels
of the Moon,
reflecting the glory of his Light.