Monday, February 23, 2009

not even a life raft could save you

Have I missed an important memo?

Did the world elect to name me as the patron saint to every self-destructive, lost and lonely asshole among us?

What's the deal, pickle?

How is it that every disillusioned, dysfunctional, self-destructive asshole finds his way to my door with the grandiose notion that I can somehow save him from himself? And why in the hell do they keep coming back????

Good hell! (To borrow a phrase often used by Maria.) Is the universe trying to tell me something about the role I'm supposed to be playing on this earth or is this the idea of some kind of cosmic joke?

Well it's not very fucking funny.

"The savior of wicked men."
Yes, some asshole actually referred to me in such a manner and then had the audacity to be slightly miffed when I told him that I'd gone out of the savior business as it was too time and emotion-intensive with very little return on my investment. Besides, I tend to leave the savior business to entities much better equipped than myself.

Here's a newsflash folks, NO ONE can save you from yourself!!! Get it through your heads! (My apologies to my readers for this angry rant, but sheesh!!) I'm so tired of hearing these guys wallow in self-pity, "well this is what the world has made me and why should I care if no one else does?" Um, hellloooo!!!! You are the only one who chooses who you are. You are not the sum of the hand life has dealt you, but are the sum of how you choose to play those cards. Don't blame the world because you made the wrong choice and don't expect me to offer anything but a good old fashioned ass kicking when you're sitting around talking about folding and walking away from the table because it's just too hard.

Sink or swim dude, sink or swim, but drowning is one hell of a shitty way to go out and I have no intention of sitting here watching you go under when you refuse to even tread water.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

rolling up my sleeves

It hasn't always been this way.

I remember a time - it doesn't seem that long ago - when the words flowed effortlessly. They would wake me in the middle of the night, insistent in their urgency to be released across a page. In the morning I would awake to find them scribbled in a notebook, or jotted on a napkin, and was thankful my muse had woken me enough to record them.

I was distracted during waking hours - one ear tuned to the world around me as the other paid attention to the whirring of words in my mind. Most days it seemed as though I were living dual lives - taking notes in biology while simultaneously scribbling a poem on the opposite page. During the evenings, when the rest of the world was quiet, I'd churn out page after page, an endless stream of verse, prose, lyrics, whatever.

Then one day I woke up and realized I hadn't written a thing in months. I chalked it up to the fact that I was busy working and caring for my son, who was a baby at the time.

The next thing I know years had passed and I'd only managed to churn out what had once been a day's worth or work.

"Am I out of words? Have I completely lost all inspiration? Maybe I'm not really a writer after all."

When grief invaded my life, it forced a surge of words. So much pain, so much anger, so many questions. It had to come out somewhere and it spilled across the page.

Soon I was working as journalist and was again writing on a daily basis, but I was no longer writing for myself. Instead I was writing for everyone else.

"Ok, maybe this is it. Maybe I'm simply destined to write non-fiction. Maybe I've just lost that creative spark."

Meanwhile the stories have been writing themselves. Scenes played out repeatedly - opening lines, entire paragraphs, chapter after chapter - all trapped inside my mind. Tens of thousands of words swirling around in a frenzy.

"Will they disappear if I don't hurry to commit them to ink?"

There's been a recent shift in the winds. Instead of sitting around, waiting for the muse to do all the work, I suppose it's time I realized she's already done her part. Now it's just a matter of me forcing myself to sit down and put it on the page. Hmmm...this could be painful!

Thursday, February 19, 2009


Every cold virus in a ten-mile radius seems to have found me this year.

That's right, I'm sick, AGAIN!

I think this is some sort or cosmic payback for all the colds I've dodged in recent years and my boasts this fall that "I hardly ever get a cold anymore."

I should've kept my mouth shut! I had a blissful week free of stuffy nose and burning chest only to wake up yesterday completely unable to breathe through my nose.

I'm wondering if it has something to do with hiding in my house for too long. Maybe my immune system got slack not having to fight off so many germs. Either way, I'm now clutching a kleenex constantly and taking an unGodly amount of anti-snot drugs in an effort to not be quite so disgusting while out working with the public.

If I refuse to shake your hand, don't be offended, I'm just doing my part to stop the spread of these little bastards!

Sunday, February 15, 2009

when taking a whiz becomes a romantic act

Ok, I think it's safe to say my husband does NOT read my blog!

Yes, that's right, "romance" was delivered via a huge teddy bear (that really is very soft and cuddly) and a funny Homer Simpson "talking" card expounding the joys of a relationship that allows you to take a whiz with the door open.

The funny thing is, I almost bought the exact same card for him, but opted for a sweet one instead.

I received no professions of undying love or anything like that, but I do have a written promise (in the card) that he will try to improve his aim.

The teddy bear hasn't kicked him out of the bed yet, but he considered it.

Friday, February 13, 2009

forget the flowers, just don't lick yourself in public

I almost feel sorry for men like my husband on Valentine's Day. The marketing folks really set them up to look like shit.

I mean really, how many guys out there are romantics at heart? Granted, I know there's a few, I've even dated a few, but for the most part, for most men, candles only come out during power outages and flowers are sent when they're trying to get out of the doghouse.

It almost pains me to think of some of these men. They are expected to muster up some romance one day a year and I can't imagine the pressure. Us women have it lucky. We're just expected to don some particularly alluring lingerie and offer up the goods. But the menfolk are expected to wine and dine and romance us...for a lot of the men I know, that's like asking a dog to not lick itself when you have company. It goes against its very nature!

So guys, take it from a woman...this year, don't bother picking up teddy bear from the drug store or spending a fortune on flowers and perfume and candy and cards. Well ok, a card is always a good idea. Trust me guys. Romance can't be bought at the five-and-dime or even at the ritzy jewelery store. If your woman wants romance, and they all do, give it to her straight, in a fashion more in keeping with your nature...make sure you're clean and smell good and the instant you see your lady love on Valentine's Day, pull her face to yours and kiss her like you mean it, like you'd drown without the feel of her lips against yours and then look her right in the eye and ask simply, "have I told you lately how much I love you?" Never take your eyes off hers as you tell her that she is the most beautiful woman in the world and you find her utterly irresistible. Tell her that you thank God every day for her. Tell her all the things you never say when you're vegged out in front of the game, or stressed after a long day of work.

THAT'S romance! THAT'S what your woman wants from you. That teddy bear will end up in a closet somewhere within two weeks and those flowers will wither and crumble. But over the next year, every time she gets annoyed because you haven't taken out the trash or have her on mute so you can hear the game, she will remember those few minutes when you told her exactly how you felt. She'll remember the touch of your hand on her face, the touch of your lips, the look in your eyes when you said those words. And she just might not yell at you for licking yourself next time you have company.

Sunday, February 8, 2009


The weather has been absolutely gorgeous for the past two days. It's almost as though mother nature took pity on me and decided to give my spirit a little taste of spring!

Oddly enough, I'm not taking advantage of the warmer temperatures and spending time outside. Instead, it's at least motivated me to throw open a few windows and clean my house!

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Houston, we have a problem

It's much more than writer's block.

It's a complete system failure.

I've often joked that I hibernate in the winter, but these past few months have been so strange. I've just been completely out of sorts. I'm not really depressed, nor am I overly anxious or stressed or upset. I'm not really anything. And that's the problem.

I'm just kinda here. Kinda numb. It's as though I've switched completely to auto-pilot. I go through the motions and that's about it. Hell, even my motions are limited. I've done as little as humanly possible and still seem exhausted by the effort.

Maybe I am depressed, although I don't feel particularly blue. I've been here so many times before. I've always snapped out of it. Yet each time, it frightens me, as if I'm afraid I won't emerge from the fog.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

grab the fire extinguisher

My lungs are smoldering.

I've spent the past week coughing, trying to dislodge an elephant that has taken up residence on my chest. My cough has gotten so severe I have now been exiled to sleeping on the couch so my husband can actually get some sleep.

It's one of those nice dry, barky coughs, that leaves your respiratory tract groaning under the friction. I'm pretty sure that friction has caused a few sparks that torched my lungs last night. They're smoldering this morning, a dull achy burn.

And yes, my stupid ass continues to smoke.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

get a move on

It's an absolutely gorgeous day - one of those warm, sunny days that has you momentarily fooled that Spring has arrived.

I should be outside trimming my rosebushes, or even better, moving them both. Instead I'm cooped up in the house washing clothes and trying to recover from a nasty chest cold.

The sad truth of the matter is that even if I weren't sick, I still wouldn't be outside. I'd still be in the house, not doing a damn thing, unable to muster up enough motivation to do anything more.

Life is passing me by as I sit here, accomplishing so little, wondering where my energy and motivation have gone.