Progress

•5 June 2009 • 1 Comment

I am here ready to write a new blog, to start a new part of my life, to create a me that I can be more at peace with. I even have a playlist titled “blog” – however, I keep playing the same song over and over. (It just happens to be the Song of the Day.) It is made up of a little of this and a little of that – some Iron & Wine, The Shins, Collin Raye, Broken Social Scene, Billy Joel, Kate Voegele, DMB, Band of Horses (!!!), etc. (It occurs to me that in listing the various artists in my playlist I am procrastinating. I guess this works out because the blog also serves as a means of procrastination.)

I bought a new pair of sneakers today. (Adidas because they are flat-foot friendly.) Gone are the days that I can use my lack of athletic footwear as an excuse to not go for daily walks. I’m told that walking can be an excellent stress reliever – fingers crossed cause I could really use some non-alcoholic stress relief right about now. This skin-crawly, need-to-bust-out-of-my-skin feeling is getting old.

While drinking several nights a week is enjoyable, it is not the healthiest approach to de-stressing. A glass or two of wine is acceptable a couple of nights a week, a bottle or two is not.

Lately I feel as though all I do is bitch and whine and complain. Now granted, I’ve got a lot going on but I should partake in “constructive venting” instead.

I’m not even going to re-read this before posting. This is where I’m at.

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Results

•27 May 2009 • 3 Comments

The results are in and my dad does in fact have cancer. Boo for that. Also, it seems to have spread. Double boo. The doctors are optimistic. My mom’s doctors were optimistic.

While sitting in the doctor’s office today I narrowly escaped all out panic. Then I became angry, but only a little. Angry that I was there dealing with everything – this should’ve been mom’s job. And as quickly as that thought blasted through so did the guilt. Why would I even think something like that? GAH!

What is most disturbing to me right now is how little I feel about it. Perhaps I’m slightly numb. Maybe I’m just focused on getting done what needs to get done. Both? Or it could be that I am afraid to let this affect me.

Here’s where I get a little, dare I say, emo (gasp!). (That made me laugh.) When my mom was sick I fell into this dark ugly place. A place that I’d rather not return to. And I had people all around, more people that I knew what to do with (that is a wonderful thing, I am not complaining). But now . . . now I don’t feel surrounded. I know that I have some superb people in my life that would help out in any way . . . if I asked. I won’t.

Despite all of that I feel veryvery alone. Maybe because it’s on my shoulders. Because I have to keep track of appointments and meals and medications and post-op whatever and and and. Honestly I feel like I’m in completely over my head. Wow – that was a major personal discovery.

Bitter

•10 May 2009 • 1 Comment

I mean no disrespect.

Today is Mother’s Day. I fucking hate Mother’s Day. Mostly because I don’t have a mother . . . anymore.

This is the sixth Mother’s Day that I’ve not had to buy a card, flowers, various bath items, etc. And since it’s all about honesty here I find it necessary to point out how fucking bitter I still am.

Bitter because you have a mom today and I don’t. Tomorrow I’ll be happy that you still have your mom, grateful that you don’t know what this feels like.

(I’m not heartless, just jealous. So deeply jealous of all of the festivities going on today.)

List

•3 May 2009 • 1 Comment

My words have become elusive and turning thoughts into something worth reading has proven difficult.

I have, however, been making lists which just happens to be an activity that I have always enjoyed. Listography is a fantastic website (and book) which has provided me with yet another public outlet and oodles of fun.

listography.com/fragmentarie

Critical

•29 April 2009 • 2 Comments

In 6th grade I had an assignment to write a piece of fiction. I dove into that assignment, I wrote and I wrote and I wrote (loving every minute of it), and I was so proud of myself. Proud because I created a whole story in my head and put part of it on paper. The characters were solid and would’ve been well developed had I not been shut down. The story could have meant something if she weren’t the only one ever to have read it.

My teacher said it was too long. That’s all I remember. Then I stopped writing and very nearly failed the class.

I wonder how this early critique shaped me, as a person, as a writer.

Do I blame my insecurities on one woman? Do I seek constant validation, even praise, because one person said something “criticalone time? Or do I put my big girl pants on and dig deep to discover why it is that I am afraid of the words that “fall out of my head onto the keyboard?”

This blog is a huge step because I’m leaving myself wide open to criticism, and unlike her, I don’t typically “appreciate” it.

Snakes

•21 April 2009 • 3 Comments

I got this tweet today from one of my BFFs (Yes, I used the term BFF and yes, I feel a little silly about it.):

“I totally turned around in the parking lot to run over a snake.”

I gave her a lot of crap about this. But why? Mostly because, if in the same situation, I would do my best to avoid the little guy, and have on many occasions with mice, squirrels, and frogs. (And I do realize that there is a difference, if only in likability, between snakes and frogs, etc. ) However, this doesn’t give me the right to judge her, joking or not. B. fears snakes, and I understand this fear. And it is because of that fear that  I will be the first to wish a scorpion dead. (Will I kill it myself? No. But that’s only because I can’t bear to look at them, much less get close enough to end them.)

But why all of the sudden have I become so unwilling to end a life, any life? I wonder when I became this person. A person who will take a spider outside instead of killing it (unless it could potentially kill me or my puppies). A person who will feel worse than she probably “should” for accidentally stepping on a worm. A person who sits in the middle of the road and cries when the damn squirrel doubles back and she feels that terrible “thump-thump”.

According to Jean Piaget, between the ages of 2-7 we become egocentric thinkers. Meaning that, during this developmental stage, the way we feel and think is the basis for what we “know” about the way everything else, living or otherwise, feels and thinks. I feel like that sometimes. There’s this little girl in my head that thinks “what about that snake’s family,” or “he was just minding his own business, not bothering anyone.”

Maybe it’s just that I hate death.

Love you B.

Doghouse

•16 April 2009 • 3 Comments

I had another enjoyable lunch with my dad today. I think he was, again, taken aback by the “grown-up” things I added to my burger: tomatoes+lettuce+onion rings+mustard. Prior to our last 3 lunch dates he knew me as solely a cheese+ketchup kinda girl. The silliness of the last two sentences makes me giggle.

After several attempts to hang out with the smallest and oldest of my pack, Oscar (my awesome miniature dachshund who used to have an Elvis lip) were thwarted, I realized that I should give him some more time. I tried bribing him with the rest of my burger from lunch (minus the “grown-up” additions). He’s just not ready to accept my apology (for leaving him here when I moved across the country for the better part of a year). While his cold shoulder is disheartening, I acknowledge that I am the one in the proverbial doghouse and this is my punishment.

I really should have waited until he loved me again to give him a bath. Sorry little man.

Just read my dear friend’s newest blog post in which she does a superb job explaining how our brains work (hers and mine, anyway). She also does a damn fine job summarizing why I cannot work inside of a theme, and why, consequently, this blog will never have one. Two peas in a pod, we are.

A side note: I also use “parentheses” when I speak . . . a lot. In fact, a good portion of the middle of my “stories” are parenthetical. Parenthetical = the “important” parts in my head that no one really cares about.

I am having a damn good time blogging. And rediscovering my voice. Thank you, friend.