peace and panic.

guday, mates. so in my quest to find peace, i've been sifting through some books given to me over the holidays- "the power of now" and "you can heal your life". gee, i wonder what the common theme in these books is. thank God for dr. phil and his endorsements. with the anxiety of everyday life, and my inability to acquire xanax, i have been attempting to focus on my breath and the very moment- not the moment 2 seconds ago, or the 2 seconds into the future. just what's happening at the moment of each breath, and giving notice to the breath, as if each one a gift. the effects of this practice have proven interesting, you see, because what has happened is that i'm going through frequent "hills" of peace and panic. one moment i'm at peace with the present, then the next i'm having a slight panic attack and want to swerve my car across a highway median, and straight to the airport. my breath has now become breathe in peace, breathe out panic.

can i find solace after 6 months in a fat camp? or a yoga retreat at yogaville?
swami asalamalaykem, please hear my cry.

i'm tired. i have homework. i have work in the morning. i should go to sleep. i don't want to do any of it.

God, i need to thank you tonight for the stars and the moon, and the music that gets me through the day. there are no words to describe their beauty.

in the words of my late uncle steve, be well.

My rap.

in the words of our ol' school rapper, Ice Cube- Today was a good day. And I didn't even shoot my AK.

Goodnight, Mr. Cube- wherever you are...

believe in your fortune cookie- if you know what's good for you.

i hate stopping for gas. i put it off until my gas light comes on, then i curse over and over again until i must be driving on the last drop, my eyes shifting from road to little orange light, road to orange light...then eventually, there i am, in all my gas pumping glory, standing in the cold and wind, angrily watching the digital numbers on the pump fly to the heights of the universe, dollars flying out of my bank account. god forbid i must pay first, needing to use CASH, of which the last 20 numbers on the pump drip by, like a barely leaking faucet, my impatience literally killing me. i must sell the car.

and oprah. on the cover of a magazine, standing next to HERSELF, about 50 pounds lighter and 12 years ago, in a cover-story before-and-after photo. after 40 years of her public yo-yo diets, who gives a shit about her fat ass now?? YOU HAVE A PERSONAL CHEF FOR GOD'S SAKE! tell him not to make the fried twinkies for dessert again!! doesn't he cook healthy?? wouldn't you make him?? JESUS!! go pump your own gas for a change! can you squeeze a trigger??

i'm fine. i'm listening to a new cd- "healing waters" by dean evenson. the massage therapist i can't afford anymore played it once and i loved it. it has the sounds of the ocean, and you know how i love me some ocean. finally, someone who values the water as much as i do. which brings me to fortune cookies.

i've tried over and over again to figure out this quest for peace. i fight through each day trying to be at peace with my situation(s), my environment, my job...and call me stubborn, but i'm just not happy here- well, most of the time. i know how i am blessed, and am grateful for those things. but my true happiness lies within freedom from all things which bind us, and exists near the water. i need my ocean, i need my people, i need the sun. it's just not here. simple. i keep going back to the two best fortune cookies i ever got. when someone tells me "if you're not happy where you're at..." or while i'm punching a 40 hour clock and missing rare times with my family, i think of these:

ONLY YOU KNOW WHAT IS IMPORTANT TO YOU

NO MAN IS FREE WHO IS NOT MASTER OF HIMSELF

and i think about the beach
and the people
and my smiles
and my love for life
and my passions
and look over at my tropical island calendar hanging on the wall
next to this computer
and i put myself there
someday

and try to go to sleep because i must get up early for my job because my job pays the bills...
so goodnight, all. maybe you'll appear in my dreams. where i'm not bitching. i swear.

outer space

wow. i'm in a deep zone with radiohead right now. i don't even know what to say to you people. brigette- how's that poetry comin' along? mike- why the fuck are you suddenly unlisted? dave- how can you be so good looking and so damn nice at the same time? cheri- i miss tai chi in the park.

i spoke to my friend brigette tonight. she said she put some poetry on her blog. it got me thinking about my old poetry tonight. then i laid back in my computer chair and daydreamed with my music.

i gotta go to sleep.

i think 2 hours just went by while i was going through some old shit. i found some old journals and stuff i'd been subconsciously trying to forget. i read some of the entries, some ranting, some poems. damn, i was really depressing. but i loved san diego. i loved the ocean, the bums, the bus, the inspiration. so much inspiration it was the sweat from your pores. here, my skin is bone-dry.

i didn't realize how often i used to write. i wrote all the time. i read poetry and followed it around. i was passionate about it. hmmmm...inspired and passionate. an unusual combination.

i was going to leave you with a poem i wrote in california, but i couldn't find the one i wanted. damn- it was a funny, one too. but here are a few good lines from 4 different poems out of a poetry magazine i found called "The Drumming Between Us"- a creation from Peter J. Harris, a poet among other things, then living in L.A. i met him while taking a poetry class in san diego. he's a bad-ass dude. wonder where he is now.

anyway, some pieces from a few poems, Harris' magazine, written by various poets:

in fact, its even unscientific
not to evolve
not to love, not to
grow & give back
the only humans who actually evolve
are lovers
all others
just simply fuck and reproduce


why is it that leaflets
handed out on blustery march mornings
never discuss the injustice
of loneliness?


being with you is like being high and floating into my own groove
its like living free and doin what i want without having to watch every move
touching you is like touching satin, my hands glide to a rhythm all their own
its like that feeling one gets in a small dimly lit jazz club listening to a musician play the saxophone
kissing you is like having a dream so good you wished it was real


we sat there drinking miso soup
and tea
and eating sushi
in the darkness
of an empty theater
i looked over at her
she was smiling at the film
she is lovely
even in the dark
and i realized
even if she became a toothless old gypsy
or something
i would always love her
i held her hand
and it was good
i hugged her
and it was good
She's gone now
I'm going through withdrawal
I cried for her
and it was good



this magazine consists mostly of love poems, and in the back of it there is a passage that tells of a writer's workshop in L.A.'s Leimert Park Village. they read love poetry. i think that's pretty cool. it's dated 1997. i hope they're still there.

well, thank you Peter J. Harris, for the inspiration tonight, even if i get no sleep. and although you wouldn't remember me if we met again, i think you're the shit. it was an honor.

songs.

so, songs. i couldn't sleep, so what else was there to do besides utilize all of the extra shit that comes with my fancy cell phone? like browsing through artists and songs and listening to snipets of the good ol' days? i must have been playing with that thing for an hour, trying not to succum to ordering some gay ring tone that would eventually cause my phone to stop ringing. i did, however, find some old songs that flooded my mind with memories of yesteryear, and the depression began to seap out of my brain like piss in a full diaper. huh? anyway, suddenly i was back on ocean beach, camped in my favorite spot, just me and my headphones, the sun and the ocean. i was there almost every day- i'd take the bus, which was an adventure in itself, and get off in ocean beach, walk to a snack stand on the corner of a gas station, grab a hot dog and a fruit punch, and head to my spot. in miami, it was a blueberry muffin with the fruit punch- they taste so good on the beach for some reason! but i'd lay there with my headphones and my favorite cd, the one that cleared my head, and there was no better place on earth.

i came across another song that brought me back to the room i rented from a married couple in hillcrest. it was a lonely bedroom, and i had little privacy, being they were home all the time so i seldom had guests. but on the nights i stayed in, which were few, i dreamt of my military lover away at sea, and beckoned the gods to bring him home. everyone has a song or cd that got them through a really bad time, and i had mine, and it came to me tonight. the memories of those nights, with or without him, provoked some very dusty tears out of the attic of my mind. i just really missed those days, and haven't felt the happiness of the ocean or the longing for a lover in so, so long.

i miss being passionate about something, or someone. i miss the anticipation of a new day, like i had years ago. i miss the lack of responsibilty in my life, and the freedom. i miss being missed.

this isn't life. my life. being up to your ears in bills and being owned by your job and planning for months to spend time with your own damn family. it's all fucked up. it's not right. this sucks. i wanna sell my car and house, rent jet skis in miami, run a bed & breakfast in mexico, or cook burgers in costa rica. i could do that. let me know if you find my balls. i seem to have lost them somewhere in this town.

goodnight, my bloggers.

MAD. FAT. MAD AND FAT.

this town is no good for me. i can't walk anywhere. and if i do, i'll get hit by a minivan. when i lived in california, florida, montana in ten feet of fucking snow...i WALKED! jesus, god forbid they start building sidewalks in this place. people might actually WALK to the mcdonalds instead of drive. maybe it's because the death rate would RISE from fat people walking into other people leaving a mcdonalds.

i see pictures of myself and want to sit on someone. or sit on myself. whatever. i'm unrecognisable. i cut myself out of them because i can't bear to see what i've become! isn't that pathetic?? now i need to add DIET pills to my list! how big is santa's bag? can my pills fit amongst all of the nintendo games and polly pockets? surely, they can!

the fact is, exercise is not a lifestyle here. it's a chore. it's not incorporated into the daily routine- we have to make TIME for it. and who the hell has THAT? (and if you do, then go jam a yoga mat up your skinny ass.) send me to a fat camp. leave me alone. i don't want to see anyone for 6 months. as for my continual pessimism, go fuck yourself. it's my party and i'll bitch if i want to.

god- i'm sorry- how was your day?

Plop, plop. Fizz, fizz.

oh, what a relief it is. bullshit. there IS no relief. at least not tonight. i can't sleep, so i may as well write to all of you people. all 2 of you. the rest are weirdos with a sick, guilty pleasure to read my blog. tonight, i can't seem to get it together. i keep getting out of bed to read, or to take more miscellaneous pills, of which the supply is dwindling down to nothing, and none of them seem to have much effect on me anymore anyway. i need a refresher, my own shit, now that i have a necessary evil we call health insurance, which we use primarily for drugs and birth control. for christmas this year, i asked santa for lunesta and xanax.

i'm not a religious person, but tonight i prayed. totally against my will, gritting my teeth, clenching my fists, struggling with the words- prayed. there are just some things i feel i need in my life now, like peace and joy. and goodwill towards men. whatever. i prayed for peace, joy, the ocean, a house on the water so i could hear the waves crash over and over again, every day and night. i picture myself in this house, with a large, wrap around porch, where i wear my long, warm robe and hold a hot cup of coffee in my hands, looking out into the endless sea, and reflecting upon my successful life, hopefully before my parents die. and right now i'm in the middle of community college and a job that owns me. no equity in my house due to the shitty economy. no light at the end of the tunnel- yet. it took a while for those pictures of obama to kick in, the ones that say "hope." i get it now. we all need some fucking hope, and really, he is, at this point, our only hope at getting our shit straight. our only hope, like that guy in star wars. who was that guy? jaba the hut? no- he wasn't the hope. he was the giant glob of phlegm that wanted to molest princess leah. right? anyway, you know what i mean. got hope? does anyone know where yoda is now? wwyd? or dwwy?

look. what i wouldn't give to get on a damn plane right now and fly to some tropical destination. no plans. no return ticket. just a nice hotel with massages and room service. lobster. a sip of champagne. and soft slippers. ocean view. warm, humid breezes. mmmmmm...... i ask for an island calendar every christmas so i can look at each month's picture and dream about being there. the best one was a hammock over the white sand, shaded in between two palm trees, right next to the water. i'm lying on that hammock and smiling, in peace, and happy. my daughter is bringing me margueritas and gutting the fish that she caught in the ocean with a spear. how talented she is! like tarzan. without all the monkeys. and that blonde whore. yes, a hammock and the ocean. too much to ask? i know! i'll write the tom cruise fan club and ask how he did it in that movie "cocktail." what was the name of that bar? i don't know, but it was pretty gay. oh, "cocktails and dreams". all the dicks in "cheers" had cocktails and dreams- look where it got them. fat with more cocktails. i bet tom cruise never got fat- jumping up and down off of oprah's couch all the time. so maybe it worked for him.

well, i'm glad i had a chance to lift your spirits tonight, or today. check back in for another good dose of optimism. you'll need it to start the day, for christ's sake! i love you guys...

Living in the NOW, for christs' sake!

should i have capitalized "christ?" jesus. i have found that i can't enjoy my weekends because of my inability to sit back, relax, and enjoy the moment. i spend all weekend dreading the dawn of monday, the beginning of a new work-week, and that 5 day daily grind of waking up at the crack of 6:45, throwing the kid on the bus, then angriliy moping to the shower to get ready for work. and work. i admit it. i just don't wanna friggin work. and if i do, it's gotta be on MY terms. not someone else's. how the hell do i do that? the smart ones planned this way in advance, and work for themselves. i need to sleep late to survive. period.

so, hence the title "living in the now." i could spend 14 hours in a barnes and noble looking for the answer to my question. or i could ask a friend. or better yet, a friend who does YOGA! yeah! those guys know all the answers. there's a reason why yoga instructors are so damn calm and laid back. i'm in the wrong field. my new plan is to practice touching my toes without bending my knees, then raising my arms straight in the air without bending my elbows, then sitting on the floor and pulling my legs behind my head, over my shoulders, and placing them on the floor behind me, all the while keeping my fat ass firmly planted on the ground. then the answer may come to me. it must be hidden way down in the tissue of my tight ass muscles.

so you can't change the past and you can't change the future. you can only act upon the present. and freaking out, losing your breath, and stressing over tomorrow is pointless. right?? easier said than done. is there a pill out there that stops future thoughts? or present ones?

allah, budda, britney- i need your help. help me to stop obsessing over my crappy job and mondays. help me to enjoy today, or at least my two days off per week. and help me to be jobless, live on the beach, and sleep in.

until next weekend,

4am

so. it's 4 am and i had just lied down to go to bed, when i thought, "i owe you and myself a blog entry." I have forgotten about my blog, with the busyness of life along with my mild depression, or laziness, or lack of motivation- who knows. i don't know what my problem is. i think it's my job. someone said to me tonight that you should have a few part-time jobs- that a full-time job owns you. and in my case, it does. it has taken over my life, and there is nothing left for me. my neck and shoulders were aching so bad, i sat in front of my t.v. and did yoga at 4 in the morning. if you know me, i won't be doing yoga, and not at 4 in the morning. but i needed to do something to relax my muscles before i ripped them out of my body. if i were oprah winfrey, i would not only be crying on everyone's shoulder, but i would have a live-in massage therapist- one that rubbed me ALL the time, and made me very healthy meals, and forced me to work out, like a personal trainer. then i'd look like jessica alba, and the world would be a better place. oh, wait- i had one of those- it didn't work out.

so- the moral of this post is that i need to reclaim my life back. and i'm not sure if that's possible as long as i work like i do. i need to work for myself- be my own boss. the best fortune cookie i ever got read, "no man is free who is not master of himself." i still have it and it reminds me of what i need to do- get into porn. no, it reminds me to use the experiences i go through now to eventually get to that place. make my own schedule. make the rules. make enough money. take care of myself first.

i'm trying not to drink, and it's been almost 2 months now. it's strange what a big deal it is- not drinking and keeping the same circle of friends. alcohol is the driving force behind many of my relationships. it's been really hard, and i've given in to the drink a few times since. i've landed myself into a state of confusion, and i've begun lying to my friends and to myself. i'm turning into a sober fraud, and i need to do a bit more soul searching. i need to figure my shit out, get my shit together, and give up the shit that keeps me down. my neck feels alot better now, thanks to my corny yoga dvd and all the stretching. the yoga video was for beginners, but i think i need one for beginning beginners. it was pretty sad. but, i need to keep working at it instead of avoiding it. i need jerry springer to inspire me with a final thought.

i don't know. but i'll keep you informed.

yours forever, (and good night)

Mustard.

well, tonight i'd like to discuss the various types of mustard that i have tasted in my 300 years as an alcoholic. First there was French's yellow mustard. GREAT on hotdogs (i like to blend a little relish in there, for that baseball stadium feel), also good with french fries when mixed with a little ketchup. ketchup by itself was ok when i was a kid, then my tastes matured a bit and i started to get into spicier foods. so i added a little mustard to my ketchup to offset the sweetness of the sugary tomato concoction. Second, came honey mustard. now honey mustard is one of those condiments that would make dogshit taste good. you could put honey mustard on just about anything, and people would eat it. fries, salad, chicken, dogshit... whoever thought honey and mustard would blend so perfectly together must have invented the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. third, i'd like to introduce grey poupon. what can i say. that is the best fucking mustard on this great, green earth and what IS REALLY in grey poupon?? i don't think they even list the ingredients. all they say is "made with white wine". i think they left out one of the major ingredients, like crack. i won't even touch a fry anymore without my grey poupon. i don't blame the guy in the limousine. he knew his shit. especially when it came to mustard. man, i love that stuff. but i don't buy it in the new squeeze bottle. nope. that's like drinking tott's champagne out of a plastic cup. only glass jars for me, baby. so children- what have we learned tonight about these three different types of mustard? very good! eating dogshit is ok as long as it's covered in honey mustard.

I JUST DON'T KNOW.

well, my faithful blogsters. what can i say. i just haven't been able to bring myself to post anything in the last few weeks. my job is just too stressful, demands too much of my time, as well as the dog and child. you've heard it all before. and i'm just tired. i look at my computer and look at my bed, and well, my bed is just a little more inviting. i can't resist it's lure and warmth. i fall asleep feeling guilty- i'm to blame for your lack of late night entertainment, and for the real go-getters, your midday read. my work is never done, as i just finished rinsing the excess die out of the t-shirts my old people made this afternoon in a tie-dye class. they have no idea how much i slave away just to keep them happy. and they're seldom happy.

on a lighter note, i have some good news. i got my 90 day review today from my miserable boss and in all areas, i exceeded expectations. except one- which was my interaction with the rest of the staff. in that area, i got "met" expectations. why do i have to get along with all of my co-workers? so what if i am a little abrupt?? quit acting like a dumb-ass-lazy-fuck and do your job. maybe i'm a little bitter because i don't have the power to fire anyone. the people that suck just stay and suck. and it makes my life more difficult. hence the frustration. where's my damn raise.

as for my personal life, well, i don't have time for one. no- i just exist. and do arts and crafts with old people. and shop at walgreens. i'm still on the sober wagon, and it's interesting what it's done to my attitude. i have LESS patience, i'm MORE irritable, and my tolerance for bullshit has plummeted to about zero. after a few grievances with my daughter's first grade teacher, i was sitting at the kitchen table and thought to myself that she was rude and i didn't agree with her teaching methods. so i wrote her a note that said "i think you're rude and i don't agree with your teaching methods." at the end of the week i had a meeting with the principal and told her i should have held onto private school, but i couldn't afford it. i thought there may be some light at the end of the public school tunnel, until the principal herself used the term "warm and fuzzies", in reference to the teacher's lack of "warm and fuzzies" resulting in my hatred for the hag. it has nothing to do with warm and fuzzies. she's just a bitch. jesus. for just nine thousand dollars a year, i could drop off my daughter in the morning and have peace of mind.

i gotta go to bed. i'm starting to look like a hunched-back homeless person.

and there's a lady out there named brigette who needs to call a sista.

love to you all,

new post

just letting my 2 faithful readers know that i'm still alive...having to get up at the fucking crack of dawn during the week is kicking my ass, and it has totally and utterly destroyed not only my social life, but my non-social life of mommy time after 10pm. i don't even have the energy at this moment to get you up to date on the sooooo exciting events of the last 2 weeks. drained. i'm just drained. but i swear- i have so much to say!! so check back in maybe tomorrow. who knows. i may still be alive. love to you all,

SCUPPERNONG

SOOOOOOO..... i'm giving up drinking. it's day #4. haven't gotten the shakes yet, but i've certainly shed a few wet ones. tears, that is. funny though- i'm not sure whether it's from my break-up with beer, or just plain ol' depression. i'm not making any major commitments, but i'm going to go as long as i can. maybe a month if i'm lucky. i'm my own experiment. i'm curious to see how alcohol effects my life- my moods, my sadness, my happiness, my money, my relationship with my dog....

after day #2, i went to my first party. i thought my friends would be supportive and cheer me on, being that this decision could only be seen as a positive one. i was wrong as a motherfucker. "WHAT? YOU DUMB ASS! ARE YOU SERIOUS? I BOUGHT YOU THIS FUCKING BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE! CAN'T YOU START THIS THING TOMORROW? IT'S MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY! THIS BEER IS IMPORTED! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS SHIT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! GO JOIN A MONASTERY YOU SOBER BITCH!"

i love my friends. i do. and i asked some of my sober friends how to let go of the drunk ones who don't support you. the answers varied. my backlash is yet to be seen.

but my biggest problem right now is the alcoholic obligations i have made BEFORE my decision to nix the drink. i have some really cool neighbors who brew their own beer. and it's a pretty big deal when a batch is finished- i'm there with a quickness to receive a big bottle of the latest batch. it's an exciting time. when rawboy lived here, we always drank it together and discussed it's unique flavors, placing our careful and fair judgement. now i not only have ONE bottle of delicious neighborly brew, but TWO! and the second one is their ANNIVERSARY brew! the one i've been waiting for! we've ALL been waiting for! 13 years of fucking marriage SHOULD be celebrated- by the neighbors, by their neighbors, and ME! we will all guzzle in unison and the world will be a better place, and the long marriage will suddenly make sense, and it would all be worth it in the end- for the anniversary brew. i can hear it fermenting now from my kitchen...."Drink me now, and you, too, will have a happy 13 year marriage..."

i sent rawboy a lame text message inviting him over to share the beer. i mean hey, it's tradition. so he accepts the offer, meeting at the end of the week, in a 2 second phone conversation- very rawboy. and then, a few days later, i decide to quit. quit the beer, the wine, the espresso flavored vodka. and i cancelled my beer date with rawboy. it's all for the best. but i haven't told you about the SCUPPERNONG...

as some of my dedicated blogsters know, i now work with seniors. most of them are near the end, or at least they appear to be, and so they deserve a little wine every now and then. right? so i organized a little "wine tasting" for my old people, and it was a big success. they come out of their rooms for food, bingo, and wine. well, my favorite couple was there, and mentioned that if i were to have a wine tasting on VIRGINIA wines, then i would have to have a wine known as SCUPPERNONG. apparently, it's the only true virginia wine, and dates back to like 1200 b.c.
so i promised my couple i'd have this sacred wine at our next tasting.

well, once again, if you're a faithful dyvacreem reader, then you'd remember my blog "Til Death Do Us Part." tina, half of my couple, took sick and went into the hospital. walter, her husband, left too, and they are no longer with me. tina got moved to a rehabilitation center, where she now lives. the day walter came back to get the rest of her things, he took me to the side and handed me a bottle of SCUPPERNONG virginia wine. they never made it to the next wine tasting, and he wanted me to have it. so no, i'm not letting go of my scuppernong wine. it may never be opened, maybe one day it will. but this one's sentimental.

and there it is. if you love me- i mean really, really love me, you'll give a little more support than "fuck you" or "good luck". geez, i know some real assholes... but anyway, i do idolize a few of my friends, and brigette, you're one of 'em. thanks for your awesome self. i'll be in touch.

soberly yours(for now),

richmond chainsaw massacre

I WANT A CHAINSAW.

do you have to fill out an application to buy a chainsaw? is there a 5 day waiting period? a background check? JESUS! you can buy a fucking chainsaw at HOME DEPOT!
my daddy bought me an electric hedge trimmer today. i went crazy with that fucking thing. it started with the hedges- nice, even, round stupid bushes. then the branches growing against the house. then the big bush in the backyard that keeps attacking me. then i just couldn't stop. i wanted to cut through the fence. i wanted to slice my dog's head off. i wanted to throw it at my bitch of a neighbor as she peddled her tall ass into her driveway from a long, nice bike ride. skinny bitch. i trimmed the trash can. i trimmed the gutters. YES, THE VIBRATION!! HAHAHAHHEEEEEHAAAHG! my whole yard looks like it's joining the fucking military. pounds and pounds of foliage gone. i feel refreshed. i feel new and clean. i think i'll shave my bikini line with it. i want an upgrade. i want a chainsaw. no more trees. for ANYONE!

i'm going to bed.

uuuhhhhh....

today is saturday. i worked all day. then i went to the dog park. there was one other dog there. the other dog humped my dog's neck. i guess our dogs had fun. then i went home. i didn't even drink a beer or a glass of cheap white wine. i'm sleeping late on sunday. i may go to lunch. i may cut the grass. i may shoot up. not sure yet. i like the sound of thunderstorms. and gas prices will be way up on sunday. some oil thing in the ocean screwed up today. well, goodnight.

yours,

whatever

so i feel like i need to say something before i go to bed tonight. i don't know what exactly, but something. i met two awesome chicks today. they live in d.c. and i was there for work. hopefully we'll keep in touch. i danced with a ballroom dance instructor and the cutest little old man with parkinson's. i was visiting an assisted living center there and i joined in on the ballroom dance activity. a large group of elders showed up to participate, and they just loved to dance to the music. the instructor even danced with the wheelchair residents, twirling them around on the floor. oh, the little things....

i think i've figured out why i have such a bad case of the lonliness blues. i was talking with an old friend tonight about relationships and why we can't seem to make them work, and why or how they end. he said that it was hard for him to get over his ex because everything they had together was still there. i mean, she's the one that moved out and made a new start- a new apartment, new furniture, new shit, whatever. he stayed- stayed in the house and everyday he saw all the things that they had together, did together, the memories of spaces and places where they sat together, talked together. you know what i mean. all those things are still here, in my house to remind me, too. and when i sit down at the table, the couch, the front porch- i'm always reminded, and get mad for missing him. i'd like to be over it, and i'd like to move on without any thoughts of him. but it is hard, and denying that is a big fat lie. yes, he was an asshole. but it's his presence i miss- the companionship. the routine. anyway, tell me to get over it again.

ok, i swear i'm going to bed. i'll dream about the wonderful world of work tomorrow and punching the 8 hour clock. sweet dreams, my bloggy readers.

LONELY

aaahhhrrrggggg. i'm feeling very lonely tonight. maybe it's the rain. all day i've just wanted to sleep and all night i've just wanted to cry. it's the end of my period. maybe that's it. rawboy said we only argued when i was on my period. i disagreed. the fights may have been worse, but we argued alot. i think. but what's alot when you live together? how much are you supposed to argue? what's normal? geez. i'm pretty pathetic right now. tired as i am, i must sit here and tell my two readers how sad i feel and that i'm really in need of some company. i seem to somehow take on the problems of the world, with my dad expressing to me his regrets after his wife died and how much he misses her. The old ladies at work tell me how shitty their husbands were and how hard it was being young and married with children in those days. How they used to do so much, and now they do so little. I'm responsible for making their last days exciting, and it's just too much. I don't want it. I want a deserted island, a hut, and an amazing view. Peace and quiet. No responsibility. When did i start using capital letters?

I call on the spirit of Sade to put me to sleep tonight. And a few sips of Port.

I'll be in touch, and i promise i'll feel better next time.

Yours,

oh, and will somebody please tell me why we all aren't working for our fucking SELVES?? is there really any other way to live???
maybe i just wanna sleep late.

how come none of you ever tell me to shut the fuck up? or quit whining? or get over it? i think i need new friends.

Who am I?

Before you bloggers read on, I hope you are all sitting down. This is serious. Hell has officially frozen over. Be warned.

I own a juicer. And it's easier to use than Rawboy's. It's easy to clean. It's white. It's quiet. It's quick. It's spectacular.

Carrot juice, hear me roar. I'm going to juice everything in the fucking house, even the dog. The neighbors will call the cops. The streets will be blocked off. Child services will come. I'll be on national news as the crazy juicer lady.

Give me celery, or give me death.

I'll keep you posted.

Bad Luck Me.

So.

1. Today I couldn't find a parking space.
2. My dog had diarrhea in the middle of a crowded street in the middle of a festival.
3. Some hippie guy in Jesus sandals stepped in it before I attempted to sop it up with my plastic bag.
4. I couldn't pick up diarrhea with a plastic bag.
5. I needed cash at the ATM but I forgot my PIN.
6. My olives fell out of the cart in the grocery store on my way out and spilled all over the floor.
7. My car had a flat tire in the grocery store parking lot.
8. I have to work tomorrow.
9. My tire may be flat again.
10. I have to work tomorrow.

A holistic counselor once told me that my energy was spinning backwards. I think it's just stopped spinning, or it's sitting at a bar somewhere in Tijuana.

SUNDAY

I didn't miss you til today.

I woke up late and you were supposed to be here

making noise in the kitchen

pulling out your chair

writing or reading with your tea.

I went out on my own but

it wasn't that peaceful-

In fact, it was a little

chaotic and

grey.

I went into your empty room

where I put more clutter and a

chair.

I sat in the chair where your bed

used to be and looked

around

and tried

to smell you.

There was no trace of you or

the smell of your candle

that you made for

us.

The only thing I asked you to leave was

the scent of your

room.

It echoes now and

echoes are lonely sounds

so I'm quiet in it

and so were the tears welling

in my eyes

sitting

in the chair.

I think some new

paint

will make your room better

and make me feel better but

not

on Sunday.

The Mourning

This is the final post to conclude the saga of the ex-bartender and Rawboy, a tragedy set in the semi-suburbs of an overrated town in Virginia. Yes, this is your over-the-top, dramatic, and somewhat pathetic confession of a girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders who needs no one. If I told you that Rawboy was moving out this time, you may not believe me. You wouldn't believe me because I've told you this a million times before, and he never left. But tonight is different because all of his things are packed and sitting in boxes in an apartment miles away, a perfect little oasis where Rawboy can do his thing, act like a child, express his anger, be silent, sing, cry, scream, cook, screw, grow up, throw up, mature, find himself, and regret.

Rawboy is an incredible, self-absorbed asshole.

But the reason I post tonight is because I'm mourning his last night here. Don't get me wrong- when it was bad, it was really bad. But there were also the days when we worked really well. I'm remembering a time when he took my hand and led me through the woods to listen to the trees and the water running through the creek.

During his first few weeks in the house, I got very sick and he nursed me back to health.

There was a moment when he stood there and cried over the pain of his childhood and the fear of becoming a parent. I held him and told him he'd be a great father.

In the morning, lying there silent, he played with my hair and had no idea how that made me feel.

One week he went to the Bahamas. My phone woke me one morning with a picture of the sunrise over the ocean. I never told him that I felt like I was with him as I looked at it and cried. I see it every day.

There was a time when he told me he was coming to realize what a beautiful person I was and that he loved me.

He reminds me to breathe.

So there. Maybe I'm too dramatic. Too honest. Too easy. And I'll never hear the end of it from my friends. I wear my heart on my sleeve and don't hide my emotions. I don't care what he sees, or what you see. This is all I have- besides the pill I take to help me sleep.

So tomorrow I am alone again, for the first time in 8 months. Yes, that's a record for me. This "living together" thing kicked my ass. I don't think I'm ready. Fuck, I'm just trying to breathe.

As for the future, I don't wish to continue any kind of relationship with Rawboy. Who knows. He has a lot of growing to do and it should be done in my absence. I would, however, like to see him in about 10 years. We'd run into each other in Figi, where I'll be living in a straw hut by the water, catching my own fucking fish.

Oh, and my kitchen is once again a very lonely place. I think I need a juicer.

Death Do Us Part

Good evening, my nocturnal blogsters. If you have a better memory than mine, (and I bet my life you do) then you know that I work with seniors- very old seniors- at an assisted living center. Although I'm not supposed to have favorites, I must admit I've gotten quite attached to a selected few. Some of them are real assholes, and don't make the favorite list... SO, I spend the majority of my time with my couples- I like to call them MY couples, because they live in my building and treat me like family. Couples are rare in an assisted living center, because by the age of 80, most of them are widowed and have been for years. The women far out number the men, which leads me to believe that we just live longer. Period. A home full of 80 year old ladies. Joy.

I dedicate this post to my couples tonight, because one of my favorite couples isn't doing so well. Tina, 1/2 of my couple, may die within the next few days. Walter, her husband, is sitting by her side in a hospital, and he'll never leave her, not even for a moment. They have been married for 58 years. They are, and always were, very much in love.

Walter is in pretty good shape for his age. He wears a cell phone on his belt, and knocks 20 years off his life with his "Vanz" slip on shoes. He lives in his house of 36 years, but arrives at the center in the early morning to have breakfast with Tina, and stays until very late at night, making sure she has everything that she needs. They were always quick to participate in my daily activities, even if they were occupied or tired. They like me and don't want to let me down. They are two perfect angels, meant to be, and even burdened with what was, is, and will be, they still possess genuine, kind, caring souls.

I saw them every day, and the last time I saw Tina, she was walking with her physical therapist. They sat down so she could take a short rest, and I told her she had had a busy day and should go take a nap. She looked fine otherwise, and I had no idea it may be the last time I would see her there. I found out today that she went into the hospital, and my heart sank at the thought of Walter, sitting there by her side, alone. So I went to see them. I called first, and Walter answered. He was alone, and said she wasn't doing well. He asked if I would bring the 4th of July picture that I had taken of her. He said it was a good picture. I brought that picture and lots of others he had probably forgotten about or didn't know I had. I put my 3 favorite ones in a frame, 2 in which they were sitting together, smiles on their faces. When I arrived, I sat down next to Walter and as soon as I looked at him, I cried. I think he cried a little too. He said it was ok, several times. But it wasn't. He was trying to be strong, even in the sterile room that his wife may never leave. He thanked me several times for the pictures and for the balloons I brought to brighten the room. In my card to Tina, I wrote that she inspired me to find love and that things wouldn't be the same without her. She couldn't open her eyes and she could barely speak, but she did manage to say my name, and the word "thirsty." Walter held a small cup of tea with a straw to her mouth and helped her to drink. She managed the word "sweet", referring to the tea, so he walked over to a counter where he had saved a few packets of sugar and blended one in. He returned to Tina and by her side, held the cup and straw for her again. Til death do us part. It was the most beautiful moment. I said goodbye to Walter in a way that wasn't final, with just the tiniest bit of hope in my eyes, behind the tears. I always knew I'd get attached to my residents, and it was my only concern going in. If she doesn't pull through, this may be my first death, and I hope if I stay in this field, my last will feel the same.

For Wilmotine.

Time.

Who sings that song, "Time keeps on slippin...into the future?" Was it Britney Spears? Pink Floyd? I've been thinking alot lately about time, and how fucking fast it goes by. Now, I know there have been many times when it seemed to creep as slow as the line in the Golden Corral on a Sunday, but for the most part, it flies by and before we know it, we have kids who don't know who Maddonna is. Now that I work with old people at the end of their lives, I have grown a much greater appreciation for life and time. I can't help but think about myself sitting in a wheelchair in an assisted living center, if my kids can afford it, withering away with 100 other old people who feel like today could be the last day of their lives. One day I'll go into detail about my experiences there, and the stories I've been told. Again, I am tired and my uncomfortable bed is seducing me into it. But I needed to get this off my old, wrinkly chest. Thanks for reading.

p.s. I'm also addicted to dark beer, black coffee, and good,dark company.

Yours,

ADDICTION

BRIGETTE PUGH SAID...
I had one of those far away moments the other day. One minute I was putting stuff in a bag for the kids' swim play date and the next moment I was wondering how I managed to get myself responsible for two more people? The space between the present and when I used to get paid a dollar and hour to babysit evaporated. Some days I wish I could take the dollar and go home.

For those of you who do not read my COMMENTS, this was a comment to my post "Far Away", left by my faithful friend. I thought it was a good read, and worthy of a post on the front page.

Back to reality and my own uncertain moods and words, I'd like to say this: I'm a bit tipsy and a bit angry, and don't honestly know how to approach this at this very moment, without coming across as a complete schizophrenic psychopath. (So I'll do it anyway.)

Addiction. Whathafuck?

What are we truly addicted to? Yes, I'm including all of you assholes as well. No one's excluded, no one's left out. Me first.

I'm addicted to...chocolate, bread, cheese, unsweetened iced tea, my cell phone, my make-up, the occasional fried food, and my couch. And music- I like music.

So. I guess 8 out of 9 are not so healthy. But hey- I never was, and never said I would be, at the age of well, thirty-something. But my addictions are weighing heavy on me this evening, and I feel they should be addressed. GOD, I'm so disgustingly honest.

So honest, that I must say I'm too tired to finish this post. Hopefully I'll remember next time what I was trying to say. So sorry, my sorry friends.

Love be to all,

Far Away

OK, bloggers. This may very well be the most serious post you'll read from me- or maybe not- who knows.

As you know, Rawboy is moving out. I swear. Although I prematurely went through my mourning phase over the whole ordeal, I am now at peace with the situation and am looking forward to his absence. I want to reclaim my house and myself. I no longer want to share groceries or moments or space. The remainder of his journey has absolutely nothing to do with ME. So good-bye, Rawboy. You made for a great story.

On a dimmer note, I am feeling very far away. Tonight, especially, as I lay in bed and fantasize about the past, thoughts of old lovers and happier times pass through my mind like fast clouds. I thought about where I was then and where I'm at now. And I feel very far away. I don't know how else to explain it. Just far away.

So after a very pathetic orgasm, the tears start to crawl down my cheeks and into my ears, and maybe God sees the sadness in my face, and maybe not. I just want that miscellaneous pill to kick in so I can fall asleep.

My new job is kicking my ass, but in a good way. I love my job. "Activities Director" for these people has somehow morphed into hairstyler, ass-wiper, wheelchair pusher, feed me-clothe me, counselor, and mediator, among other things. I'm finding that they need me much more for their daily routine than they need me for random activities. And that's ok. Being there for them makes me happy and gives me a hell of alot more purpose than serving a steak or mixing a drink. Now I just need more time in the day. I'm tired. I need gas money. And where's my social life.

Okaaaaay, pill...what the hell?

So next month it's back to living alone, talking to myself, and scrounging for mortgage money. I guess I'll get to know my dog a little better, as well as my couch. I am a part of a large population of strong single women, and all I can say is- I've made it this far. Trust me- I shouldn't have.

Brigette, if you're out there... you're a kick-ass chick. If I were a guy,(or gay), I'd want you for myself. Hang in there. And thank you for always saving me.

And Rawboy, thank you for tonight's pina colada. (He added frozen organic bananas!)

Much love to you all-

"LOVE" (as told by Osho, the latest author)

Well, dear bloggettes- it seems there has been another explosion in Loveland. Rawboy and I have been debating the topic of LOVE for several days now, and Rawboy's the winner. Because if he wasn't, well then, Rawboy would be wrong. And he's never wrong...

Early in our friendship/relationship/courtship/thingy, Rawboy expressed to me that he wanted a serious relationship with TWO women, me being one of them, and wanted to know how I felt about it. If any of you know anything about me at all, then you can assume my response: You're a fucking idiot and get out of my life. But after reading book after book about the "true" meaning of life and all of it's secrets, Rawboy has come to the conclusion that multiple partners who share each other on a regular basis is a natural, common occurence in this world. I would expect this kind of reasoning from an inexperienced, horny, young man. Or from an older man who mistakes wisdom for lack of respect towards women.

Hmmmmm... lack of respect...I see a pattern here.

After the "absolutely not- you're a fucking idiot" rebuttle to this obsurd request, Rawboy temporarily gave up on the notion and things went back to normal- until the explosion the other day. After several days of intimacy, Rawboy expresses his love for me like so: "I love you like a sister." Yes bloggers, sit back, and take it all in. I know I didn't. I didn't need the time.

Is it just me?? Am I being unfair?? Should his words have not been a direct stab in the heart?? Well, it was- a stab in the heart, that is. A deep, twisting stab. So the debate begins- What is love? Is there one, true definition? Aren't there many degrees of love, and if so, what are they? Someone tell us, please! This definition of "love" has torn us apart and we may not get passed it. Not without one of us surrendering, anyway.

Without typing a novel on the intricasies of love and all it entails, I will tell you this- I have experienced many relationships in my day. Enough to know when love exists- when a deep, meaningful love exists, and the difference between those kinds of love and "a love you have for your sister." Maybe Rawboy feels less guilty screwing three women at one time when the love he feels does not exceed the love he has for his sister. Or maybe he just wants to screw his sister. Who knows.

But the love I have for Rawboy is something very intimate, much more involved than a brotherly love. And I'm not mad because I love him "more." I'm mad because he's an idiot. I'm mad because he doesn't have a clue. I'm mad because he says he knows what love is and how it should be expressed, when he's never felt it before. He's never been hurt by it before. His heart has never been ripped out of his tiny chest, for love, before. And I'm mad because his new, favorite book is one in which Osho, the author, describes wives and children as "restricting chains", and that "love" should be given out like orange chicken samples at a food court, to as many people(women) as possible during one's(man's) life.

I, on the other hand, like the majority of the population- and call me old fashioned-prefer the intimacy of one partner, the journey of life and love, with that partner, my rock, my inspiration, my peace, my other half. Maybe I was hoping that I'd be the one to shed some light on Rawboy's immature perceptions. But I know now that it's not my job. The world will teach him that. And I will miss him all the same, partly because he cooks for me, and partly because I invested some time in the sheltered boy that is my roommate.

Godspeed, Rawboy.
As for me- with the future in my eyes and my head held high, "Frankly, my dear- I don't give a damn."


Until next time,

Who's Having Sex in this City?

Two weeks after it's release, my friends and I finally made it to see the much talked about movie, "Sex in the City." I must admit it was definitely entertaining. The men even had some good laughs, after being reluctantly dragged to the theater with the girls. And thank JESUS for Samantha, the promiscuous character in the film, for exposing the true side of the female lust for the shlong. If it wasn't for her (very important) role, then none of us would have had the pleasure of watching her seductive neighbor, Dante, take a very revealing, mouth watering shower. I know for a fact all the women in the theater were collectively thinking one thing: DAMN. As for the tear jerking, touching moments, there were a few that almost had me pulling out the tissue. If you don't want to know what happens, then DON'T read on!

LAST CHANCE....

1. When Carrie got the call from Big that he wasn't coming. She was in her gown, minutes from the altar, surrounded by friends. Then Big says over the phone that he just couldn't do it. She drops the phone, holding her chest, gasping for breath in sheer devastation. Her performance as a stood-up bride had us all in the moment, denying the lumps in our throats.

2. When Big tries to catch her leaving the church after changing his mind. Carrie beats him with the bouquet, all the while screaming, and heads back to the limo, Big chasing after. Charlotte aggressively grabs her heart-broken friend and with a hand-halt-pointed-finger motion, screams "NO" towards Big with startling conviction and watery eyes. The moment of truth, the scene in which all women around the world reconnect and identify with the necessity of girlfriends.

We serve as protectors of our own, always there at the right moments. It was a powerful scene, and another award-winning performance in the film, I must say. We laugh, we cry, we joke, we depart. But when it must be done, when we must be there, we know it. And the true ones always follow through. I always said there was something more devastating about the death of a friend, as opposed to the death of a relative. Your friends take a part of you with them that no one else knows exists, not even your mother or father, sister or brother. All the secrets you've ever had go right along with them, all the way back to your first kiss. The part of you that a friend knows is irreplaceable. When my good friend died, a part of me did as well. After 11 years, I never fully recovered. I still visit the grave with pink roses.

Well, enough boo-hooing about Sex in the City. But I do recommend seeing it, with a few friends and some Kleenex. If you REALLY want your money's worth, go on your period. (This does not apply to straight men.)


Stay tuned for my next column in "Dear Creemy."

Yours,

Brigette

My neighbor, Brigette, seems to be the only blogger out there who cares to comment on my posts. SO, hats off to you, Brigette, and the rest of you can go lick an icy- cold pole.

Denial...river in...what???

Well, I suppose I'll have many a post on the subject of DENIAL, but this is my first. I'm in denial about how lonely I am. SOOOO many times I wanted to kick Rawboy into the stratosphere and out of my house, but the little guy just won't budge. He likes it here, for reasons that MUST have to do with the yard and off street parking..... God knows no one else out there could stand the nightly visits from my mother and the annoyances of my child. The fact that Rawboy just doesn't want to leave turns me on even more, or shall I say, makes me like him a little more. He is a strange one for sure, and now that he's gone on his fantastic voyage to the Bahamas, I have come to terms with some repressed feelings and thoughts that I've kept hidden from him and myself. Maybe I don't want to live alone after all. And-

I don't want him to see me fail.

Fail at losing weight, fail at my job, fail at paying my fucking mortgage, fail as a mother, fail as a dog owner, WHATEVER. And why do I care?? I'm not sure. I certainly don't give two shits what other people think about me, or at least I don't act like it. Rawboy lives in my private space, my sanctuary, within my walls and my roof where I go without make-up, cry for no reason, dress like a bum, feel sad and depressed, hopeless and scared. He sees it all. I've had serious relationships where I've never been so exposed. Why am I so terrified to let my guard down? Especially in front of a guy who shops at THREE different stores for one fucking recipe?? A guy who tells me to juice the KALE before it goes bad??

So. The denial. I'm lonely without him. I miss him. The failing thing. Yeah.

His trip was only one week, but it was hard to see him go. As I hugged him goodbye at the gate, I pressed my nose against his neck to remind me of his smell, as if we were to never see each other again. I mean, you never know. I swear if he saw a cucumber floating in the sea he would jump overboard to try and save it. Then he wouldn't want to hurt the sharks that were tearing into his size 28 waist.

I'm glad he's on this trip. He deserves it. He needs it. Another great experience to add to the few he's had in his short life. Jealousy aside, I hope he had a great one night stand. I know I would, on a cruise, out in the middle of nowhere...

Well, I feel like I can go now. Go to sleep and wake up for an 8 o'clock yard sale and some breakfast with my dad, who's in town for the weekend. It helps the time to go by faster in anticipation for Rawboy's return. The dog needs to be walked.

Your Creemster,

BYE-BYE BAR!

Well, my no-comment-leaving-blogsters, after 14 years in the blood-sucking restaurant business, I have finally found a new job. As of June 16, I will be Activities Director of an assisted living center, (for the elderly and/or somewhat deranged, of course.) I know, I know.... I'M PERFECT FOR THE JOB!! And excited. I can't wait to break out the ol' Olivia Newton John tape and start sweatin' to the oldies. The old folks and I will not only Jazzercize our days away, but we'll do other things like make Valentine's cards with Polydent and play drinking games with Ensure. A friend of mine added one to the list with "wheelchair limbo." Boy, are we gonna have some fun! And I'll never step foot inside another restaurant again. (Unless I'm a patron.)


My roommate leaves for a week tomorrow. A family reunion. On a boat. It'll be just like Amistad, only they'll be lounging in beach chairs, sipping on margueritas. I will miss him, I must admit. I must also admit that I'll starve, start talking to myself again, and masturbate more. It'll be one lonely week, being I can restrain myself from having orgies and all night drink fests. I wonder if that guy returned that midget porn dvd back to Fan Video yet.


Well, I must rise early to see my daughter off to school, go to Kroger, and take Rawboy to the airport. He needs to stock up on organic snacks for the trip. God bless him.

Love to you all, for now-

Jesus Christ... Time for Change, Part 2

Well, blogger friends.... alot has happened since the last time I posted. After a long talk and a few more love sessions, Rawboy and I decided to try and make it work again. It was great for a while and he comendably stepped up to the boyfriend plate. Maybe my best friend cussing him out and telling him what an asshole he was had something to do with it, but I'd like to think it was because he realized I was worth holding onto. That WE were worth holding onto. But now the clouds have descended and the quiet before the storm is no longer quiet. The last few days have been hell- fighting, bitching, ranting, crying. My emotions have been rocked up and down, over and under and I found myself crying like a baby when he walked out the door. He was just going to work, but he still walked out the door.

I just can't do this. I can't make this work. HE can't make this work. And I DO want to blame, and I'm willing to take it. Inquiring minds want to know, and I don't give a shit if they think it's me. Bring it on. I just want this to be over. I want him to leave. I want to start over. I want to reclaim my life! But he says it's not about blame. What he won't say is that his ego has grown out of control, an unstoppable monster that has fed off of me for months now, leaving me weakened and drained.

And he can't date a girl who tells him to fuck off. Or go fuck yourself, or some sort of fuck-ing anything. Don't you just hate it when our favorite word gets in the way??

Don't get me wrong- it wasn't ALL bad. There were a few good times, like when we'd buy wine together and search for the perfect Belgian ale. When we went out for coffee and listened to jazz. When we got stoned and went to the dog park. But they just weren't enough. I can't take the fighting and he can't take the yelling. Soooo, decision to move out #2: Rawboy has until the end of the month. This time there's no making up. No making love. No making hummus or curry tofu. And there will be things that I'll miss, like him being here when I get home from work and his car in the front yard. I'll miss him sitting across from me at the kitchen table. Him opening the front door as I'm fumbling for my keys. It'll be hard. It always is. And I'm sure I'll cry a little when he takes the juicer.

My relationship with Rawboy has brought my insecurities to the surface, and I don't like what I see. I'm not happy with my body. I don't like feeling jealous. My confidence shrank as he got more involved in massage, leaving me everyday to go rub down naked, oiled women with their sore stupid muscles. And he just didn't understand. He just became cold. He evolved into the prick he was when we met, only more vocal. I wanted to help him, pull him out of his shell. But he didn't gain the confidence I had intended. I only perfected something he already had-alot of arrogance and his stifling ego. Where did I go wrong? I'm starting to think it was never me. I know who I am and I refuse to doubt myself. I simply refuse. And I've come to the conclusion that committed relationships are hard. Maybe too hard. Maybe we just need our space. Maybe I need to live alone. It is, in fact, much easier. So guys, I'm throwing in the towel. And if anyone's to blame, it's both of us. As far as internal work, we both have alot to do, learn, and change. I guess it'll just be done with someone else, another person to come along and get us further.

But I still have all of you, through thick and thin, unconditionally. And my daughter will be happy that I'm sleeping with her again, and not him. Life goes on.

I must go to bed now so I can get up early to not go to the gym. But before I go,
I'll leave my men with a little advice: Women need compliments, we need to feel sexy. Tell us that we turn you on, tell us to trust you! We need reasurrance that we are loved, that we're the only ones you see and we have nothing to worry about. Tell us we're beautiful and tell us often.

Until next time....

Time for Change

JESUS. It's time for change. I am not only speaking for myself, but for all of you as well. The weather is getting warmer now, and Richmond's long, miserable, sunless winter is finally over. No more excuses- let's all make a change. I feel like I'm not alone here, like most of you have something that needs to change. I do.

First, I need to apologize for not giving my loyal fans something to read every night. I have been unmotivated and maybe a little depressed, although I don't like that word. People tend to judge you when identifying your "down time" as depression. I have just been preoccupied, sick (literally) and tired. I finally gave in and went to Patient First, the 7-11 of medical facilities. I need a t-shirt that reads, "I went to Patient First and all I got was this lousy antibiotic." I wanted more from the doc. I wanted Lunesta and Xanax. I wanted morphine. Give me the real shit, doc. I have a high tolerance.

So, I'm waiting it out. Still coughing up a lung. I swear when this goes away, I'll hit the gym hard. Right??

For those of you interested in my love life, Rawboy is moving out. It is a mutual decision, and it didn't come easy. I think we were both in denial about the reasons why this isn't working, and that's ok. That's normal. Who doesn't want to be loved? We help each other, but hurt each other more. So it's for the best. The date of departure is July 1. I will do my best to keep you informed of the tumultuous days ahead, although I'm hoping for sunshine and clear skies. I would like to end this cohabitation on good terms. I feel like a teacher who's attached to her student. It will be hard to see him go, and this house will be quiet and I will be lonely again. I may also starve, considering Rawboy did most- (who am I kidding?) ALL of the cooking. The fridge will be empty and the ear-piercing, sometimes unbearable sound of Opera will no longer fill the kitchen air while Rawboy does the dishes. My washing machine may not break afterall, once he stops squishing in his over-sized comforter. The water bill will go back down to a reasonable amount because he will no longer add 30 minute showers to my daily routine. The absence of the juicer will add 23 more square feet to the counter space, but will probably be replaced with nothing. And who will walk my dog? Poor dog. Mommy likes to sleep in.

Well, my faithful friends, all things must come to an end. But I'd like to think it's a new beginning for me, and I'll take what I've learned and go to the next can't-love-due-to-childhood-hurts relationship. We'll see. In the meantime, I need to give back to my girlfriends who have helped, coached, and cared along the way. They have missed me.

My Patient First meds have kicked in and I must go to sleep now. Until next time....

Congestion

Hello fellow nocturnians. I am only as good as my sleep aids allow me to be. I have been congested for almost 3 weeks now. It won't go away. It's in my chest, now in my nose, clogging my head, my brain, my thoughts. I am exhausted and emotionally drained!! What gives?? So, in dealing with this viral intrusion, I have for the most part confined myself to the house (outside of work, of course) so that I can rest a little and hopefully get rid of this nasty thing. I figured it would ride it's course, but it prefers to stay and destroy my life. I have been coughing and wheezing and blowing my nose, and I just can't take it anymore. The constant cough has hurt my back and neck. I made an appointment for a massage, but fried myself in the tanning bed a few days before. A massage just isn't worth it if you sting all over, right? Hot stone anyone??

Anyway, on top of all the mucus, my period came and PMS set in. Boy, was it bad. Maybe my cold amplified the bitch in me, but it's a good thing I didn't own a gun. I almost went postal at the KROGER because the olive bar wasn't stocked. And I couldn't find beer. I hate Kroger. I hate grocery shopping. I hate getting gas. I hate Oprah.

Congestion. On top of these stresses, there's Rawboy. What can I say? He's here, all the time, and I'm sick and here all the time, and we ended our "thing", and I'm in limbo. I know the man I fell for is still in there somewhere, but I don't see him anymore. I don't see the man I could kiss whenever I wanted, hug whenever I wanted, or touch whenever. I can't look at him the way I used to because I can't go back. Back to the affection I so DESPERATELY need. We just don't work. We won't work. And I think I may have said too much about the things that didn't work. I think my honesty hurt him a little, and the bulk of it's not his fault. I've had many relationships, casual and not, and he's had none. I expected him to know how to do this, how to make this work and be a man, only to manifest into his love experiment that sometimes made me feel like shit. So there. So it's done. And he's still cooking, and still rubbing random chicks, and still on his journey to fullfillment. I'm just a stepping stone (who loves his lips.)

Congestion. As I sat down next to him on the couch to discuss my feelings (I had to do this because we spent the last few days not talking), the pressure in my head began to build until it felt like it was going to fly off. I know this feeling all too well, and it's tears. I just needed to fucking cry. As a mom, with a roommate, you just don't get to sit and have a good damn cry to cleans out the system. There's no time and no place for it. A good cry for every day stresses, for broken relationships and no more beer. It was time for my cry, and she wasn't waiting. So I sat there and talked, and cried, and talked a little more and cried. It wasn't the sobbing that I needed- I wanted to sob like a baby- but I didn't. I held back the flood, shedding just enough to release the pressure. And Rawboy fell asleep somewhere towards the end, so I turned out the light and went to bed, leaving his ass there on the couch. But not before I blogged this story for my faithful friends. Aren't you refreshed now? Feeling more energized??

Not me. I'm getting sleepy... until next time...

Confession

"Blogger, it's been 1 month since my last confession."

- Go on, my dear.

"I've been seeing my roommate. I seem to have lost my life."


Well, what can I say. I have not only been M.I.A. to my friends, but also to my emails and my beloved blog. I am shamed. I sit here before you with my head down, drowning in a sea of manure and guilt. What is that smell? Is it me??

Somewhere in between poaching eggs and rock climbing, I've fallen into a romantic relationship with my roomie. It all happened so fast, that the 4 eggs we poached that night are still in the fridge, rotting. Just kidding. But seriously, my mind has been everywhere else but in my head. Making this thing work has consumed every ounce of my being, and although quite uneventful, pretty boring, and sexless, I need my life back. Where have I been?

I was having a hard enough time keeping my shit together lonely and sober, but now with man and happy (sometimes), I'm losing touch with my friends and not paying my bills. And it finally hit me. Tonight. This isn't working. The roommate relationship. And not because he's my roommate, but because we're just at different places in our lives. Didn't I always say I would never date a younger man?? Someone validate this!

This thing I had with Rawboy was great. Don't get me wrong. When he wants to be sweet, he's really sweet. He's easy to live with, he's clean, he cooks breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We drink wine and share good beer. I enjoy his company. Before his arrival, I had to live alone. Now I can't imagine him gone. However, loving him or him loving me is not part of our equation. We tried. I tried. And it was good while it lasted. But his inability to love and this great lack of sunshine is too big a threat and we can't survive. Oh, Shakespeare, where the hell art thou? A poem, yes- I am inspired.

I need more and he needs the sun.
He needs someone who doesn't need him to care.
My desire for commitment makes him want to run.
Now I'm suffocating, my mind needs some air!

Alas, I only strive to be like one of the greats, like Robert Frost or Weird Al. Nevermind.


With respect to Rawboy's privacy, I'm withholding the details. But I hope you all get the picture. Now we just have to figure out how to go back to roommates, how not to stare too long, how not to think about his arms or his lips. Ugh, this sucks. But we have learned alot from each other and I hope we can accept and move on. (Preface to my next post.) I am tired, friends... Goodnight.

The Joy of Sex- OOPS!! I mean Cooking

Well, hello readers. This post is about cooking. Or lack, thereof. I've been slaving away all these grueling years making Kraft Macaroni and Cheez, PBJ's, instant grits, Lean Cuisine meals, and hot dogs. So why the fuck can't I poach an EGG??? There are mornings (or afternoons) when I wake up and crave a delicious brunch of poached eggs with hollandaise, country ham (or rare steak), 2 beautifully prepared potato cakes, and perfectly grilled asparagus. Oh, and the mimosa, of course. Ok, five mimosas. Anyway, I spend tons of money on weekends "brunching it up" at various fan bars in search of my dreamy meal. But now that I have this roommate who actually cooks his own meals, I began to get curious about how a stove actually works. Rawboy, the roomie, is a fan of the local public library, who I have not visited in a while because I owe money for an overdue, crappy movie. So after I vented my frustrations about these rare poached eggs that I absolutely must have for brunch, Rawboy went to the library and checked out several (very thick) cookbooks. Needless to say, we began the tumultuous journey of the perfectly poached motherfucking egg.

So, I put off the conclusion to this story because of a storm. I was afraid my computer would crash in the middle of all this, and my readers would never know how to poach an egg. It's several days later, and no more storm. Just grey, depressing days. Grey days with a bong and red wine. So here's what happened-

My girlfriend, Deidra, came by and the three of us (Rawboy included) stood over the stove with a pot of boiling water and a carton of eggs. Rawboy and I took turns poaching, placing the misfit eggs in a bowl. Poor little retarded eggs. I had to photograph these eggs, for I am doing a small documentary on the progress of my cooking, now and in the future. Look out for my post on "Hummus"- it will be a good read, with a tutorial and pictures. There will also be 9 paragraphs dedicated to soaking chickpeas overnight, dried chickpeas versus canned chickpeas, and as a bonus, how to identify a food processor in your kitchen. Anyway, your writer is exhausted and emotionally drained this evening, so I will retire now to my uncomfortable bed. Unfortunately tonight, Rawboy has not invited me into his.

Sweet dreams, my little cookers.

Butt Face

Tonight's post is inspired by yet another entertaining evening at the Bamboo Cafe. So we're all huddled in our favorite corner of the Bamboo laughing, talking, joking, drinking, and whatever else you do in a small, smoky bar right before close. Then an "outsider" imposes upon our clique without a place to sit, drunkenly (is that a word??) stumbling from one of us to the next, wearing tight jeans and swaying from side to side with his butt in our seated faces. Of course, the majority of us ignore his intruding buttocks within close proximity of our faces, but Emily, a middle-aged, attractive, opinionated lady (not to mention one of my favorite Bamboo groupies) begins to attack this strange man regarding his invading ass. "OK, OK, GET YOUR BUTT OUTTA MY FACE! I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR BUTT IN MY FACE! I MEAN, COME ON, HAVE YOU EVER HAD A NICE BUTT IN YOUR FACE?? REALLY, HOW MANY OF US HAVE HAD A NICE BUTT IN OUR FACE?? JESUS, REALLY, WHO IS THIS GUY WITH THIS BUTT?? GET HIM OUTTA HERE, PLEASE SOMEONE, MAKE HIM SIT DOWN, HEY, GUY, HERE, SIT DOWN- HERE'S A CHAIR!.....FOR GOD'S SAKE...."

Well, I had a good laugh, even if no one else was paying much attention. I did, however, pay attention to his rear when he got up for the second time- his wide, flat butt in his tight jeans in my face once again, and it made last call worth while, as we all sipped the last drops of our watered-down drinks and began to dispurse out the door into the street. That guy's butt was really funny. Thanks, you funny butt man.

Remembering Chris

I got the news today that an aquaintance of mine, Chris S., died. The story I heard was that he wrecked his car into a cross infront of a church right outside of our neighborhood. It was late Saturday night. He was such a good soul. I had a crush on him once. Chris sporadically hung out with a mutual circle of friends that we've both shared for many years. He was extremely smart and handsome, and worked in real estate and taught at a private school. Although Chris was very friendly and knew many, I got the impression he was also very lonely. He lived alone and enjoyed listening to music in his living room, where his stereo system took up much of the space. We had some good times together and I hope now his soul is at rest. He deserves it. And he deserves to be remembered.

Chris, I know this is strange, but I'm thinking of a man I met briefly while living in San Diego. I wrote a poem about him and feel like now's an appropriate time to share. Here's to you, Chris- and a beer or two at our favorite after-hours spot.


"Lookin' at the World Through Rose Colored Glasses"

He yells to me as he's walking my direction.
Just the other day he was directing traffic
With the flashing red hands
And the flashing white man
Hoping the crossing pedestrians would give him some money.
I remembered and it made me smile.
So I didn't get mad when he
Disrupted my peace
Disregarded my headphones
Invaded my space and
Blocked my sun on the bench by the road.
He spent a year and a day in jail
For shooting the man that molested his friend's daughter.
The man didn't die.
And his fourth and last wife
Killed herself.
She wore glasses so thick and her name was
Doris.
He tried to cry when he told me he missed her.
Said he's had HIV for fifteen years and the doctors don't know why
his skin's falling off
As we looked at his hands.
He says Jesus loves me and some other things
I can't remember 'cuz
My bus was coming.
So we hit our fists together as a goodbye.
He didn't ask for money.
He didn't intend to.
And he didn't scare me.
In fact,
He was the best thing that happened to me
All day.


-dmy 3/00

Where I'm Supposed to Be

Well, looking back on my last few posts I realized how unimportant they are. Was I speaking of myself when I said "dull, dull lives?" I think this may be closer to the truth. It doesn't matter that I have fantasies about my roommate or that my love life could use improvement. What does matter is that you know where you're supposed to be. I came to this conclusion this evening, while lying in bed next to my daughter as she slept. I can't help but marvel at the beautiful little creature before me, who so desperately needs me to accompany her while she falls into her much needed sleep, her little arm wrapped around my neck tightly as if to improve the difficulty of me trying to escape quietly out of the bed and into the living room for a quick read or a movie.
I thought back on the days of my youth, my early 20's that I more than took advantage of, and remembered times when at the end of my day I laid in bed awake wondering what I was supposed to do and where I was supposed to be. All the days spent partying, those wonderful, carefree days I spent drinking, living, laughing, drugging, loving. Yes, they, to me, were the good ol' days. But not always good nights. The nights weren't always so good. Those were the nights spent alone, usually coming down from a drug induced high and trying my best to fall asleep quickly before my uneasy thoughts consumed my mind, hitting me like a freight train. Why am I here? What am I supposed to be doing? Where am I supposed to be? When will I get it together?
Although some of those days I remember and consider a few of them the best days of my life, I wouldn't go back. They were fun, but hard. Looking back, they were pretty tough times. We were all so free and happy, and yet so scared and lonely. Like little birds having left the nest for the first time, saying good-bye to mommy and daddy. And there were so many of us, having left home, whether it be good or bad, and heading out in search of a better place- a place that resembled independence, happiness, and acceptance. That's when we really learned about life. We learned how to pay our own way, protect ourselves, interact with others, love and leave others. And what a beautiful thing how at that time in all of our lives, we found each other. I wonder where they all are now. What they are doing, if they have families, if any of them died. I only have a tiny picture of us I keep on my keychain, reminding me from time to time where I used to be. And my big smile was genuine.
Anyway, I am sorry if this all sounds confusing and out of place- I'm daydreaming, I guess. But back to my point. My point is that I still don't have my dream job, I take a few classes now and then to eventually get a degree, I'm not happy with what I'm doing or the city that I live in. But I do have a child- I did make that choice. It's done and I am here. We are here. There's no turning back now. And when I lay in bed next to her so she can hold me and fall asleep, I look at her perfect little face as she drifts and think to myself that this is where I'm supposed to be. It feels good and secure and makes a bad day a little better. It puts all the shitty, crazy things into perspective. And that's something. It's nice to have something. For now, this is just where I'm supposed to be.

Anyone for a drink?

Still Here.

Hey. Just letting the loyal ones know I'm still here. I'm just taking a hiatus, be it I have no inspiration to write lately. Maybe it's the weather. But hey, just think- one day soon you'll have something REALLY interesting to read in the middle of your dull, dull lives.......

love always,
DYVACREEM

Bullshit.

Soooooo, I know there are thousands of readers out there who have been losing sleep over the thought of me seducing my roommate. Rest well, blog readers. The impulse is gone, swept out of me like a thief in the night- for now. I don't even really know how it happened. One minute I was shopping for organic milk at Kroger, and the next minute I was saying to myself "fuck this." This, as in "the act of pining over a man". And it was gone. Maybe it was because he told me it wasn't going to happen. Not sure. But I do feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders, leaving me free to go on with my uneventful life as it was. Yes, Rawboy and I had "the talk" about my secret desire to violate him. This talk was initiated by myself, of course, the morning after my last post, "Fuck". I mean, afterall, it is my house, and I won't be walking around feeling uncomfortable every time he decides to hack coconuts in a tank top. He must know. We must get it out in the open, clearing the thick fog of sexual tension in the air. So I sat down next to him on the couch as he read his copy of Raw Times and very simply said "You have a strong sexual energy and it makes me uncomfortable", give or take a few extra New Age words. And just as I suspected, he agreed. Oh, not about a mutual discomfort, but about his strong sexual energy. Almost as if to say "Why, yes! These ARE Bugle Boy jeans I am wearing. So deal with it, bitch." And I am. Dealing with it.

We went to lunch and discussed my delima further. There's something very sexy about a raw foodist breaking down and eating a burger. As a matter of fact, I, at this very moment, have realized the very first time a dirty thought about my roommate entered my mind. He stood in the kitchen once, slowly eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. What is it that is so incredibly masculine about a guy and a PBJ? Is it the "bacheloresque" simplicity of the sandwich? Or is it because this somewhat uptight, meticulous, food processing man in my house has for a minute surrendered to the lure of this particular All-American food? I'm not sure. But either way, it was at that moment that he came back to Earth. I finally viewed him as a human being, not an alien herbivore.

So, back to lunch. After we picked out all the gay waiters from the straight ones, and after Rawboy's rant about how ours didn't fully acknowlegde him, we touched on the subject of us. I told Rawboy everything I felt, wanted, and needed from him. And he listened, like a good gay boy should. And although he never said any of these feelings were mutual, he didn't say they weren't. He did say, though, what I needed to hear and THAT was that it would cause problems for the both of us. And he is right. I already knew this, but I am cursed with an impulsive heart, which does usually cause such problems. Maybe it's just been so long that I've forgotten all of that. In either case, now I can go about my day with a clear conscious, not caring that Rawboy knows what I'm thinking. I should be able to have an attractive roommate without falling victim to his charms. Or body. Right? Maybe we can just all get along.

We get into the car and before we drive off Rawboy gently wipes a piece of hair out of my face. My reaction was to look at him and laugh, as he said "We might as well have fun with it...." Great. Fuck YOU, Rawboy. That's fine. Let's do that. Now pull down your pants.


Stay tuned, my good people. In a few weeks I'll either be pregnant or dead. -DYVACREEM

Fuck.

"Whoomp! There it is." For those of you old folks that don't know- that is a phrase from a somewhat recent hip-hop song that I thought I'd prelude my FUCK statement with. Tonight I was staring at my computer for a long while before I thought of something worth saying. During this period of deep thought, the one word that repeatedly came to mind was "FUCK."
Staring at the computer...fuck. Stroking back my hair....fuck. God, I'm pretty tired....fuck. Damn, I'm really horny...fuck. Fuck, what do I write?...fuck. Sometimes I wonder how I'd get through life without the word. I need it to survive.

Sexual energy. It is undeniable. It is ever present. It is stronger than you think. It begs you to fall victim. I'm falling. God help me. Or Jesus. Or MotherFatherSonandSpirit. Or Allah. Whatever. Rawboy has cast his spell and I am vulnerable. Fuck.

I cannot have sex with my roommate. I need one of my high school teachers to pop out of my closet and make me write it on the board 100 times. I CANNOT HAVE SEX WITH MY ROOMMATE. If you ask someone why, they say "Bad. Just bad." And that's pretty bad.

I mean, I thought he was gay!! Massage therapist, raw foodist, take long in the shower, Ani DeFranco concert watchin' roommate! What is the world of men coming to? Can we really encounter a straight man who has a feminine side? One who might be able to really understand us?

I'm not going to get into all the reasons why I think this may be a possible union. I just know I called two of my girlfriends tonight in need of an intervention. It would be wrong. And I need to be nursed back to health. Thank Ghandi for girlfriends. Girls- really. What would we do without each other? I mean, who else would send you a text message at 2 A.M. that says "Don't do it!"?

I can't go on. I'll keep you posted. Have faith.

Yours truly,
DYVACREEM

Ode to Yesterday

I can't sleep. I'd like to touch on the subject of inspiration. I don't even know who the hell I'm talking to out there, but I like to imagine someone's listening. There are many sources of inspiration in the world- for example the ocean, a pretty sunset, a beautiful park. But have you ever been in love with someone that inspired you? I mean, someone that you thought of almost every second of every day. Someone that filled you with so much emotion that you had to put it on paper otherwise you'd burst? I don't know about you, the reader, but I find inspiration in beauty. But then you could say that there's so much beauty in things such as relationships, as opposed to physical beauty. A relationship that feels so natural it's almost like magic. Like there was no mistake that the universe caused your two paths to cross. When you think about the chances of it. When you think about how you met.

I've experienced it once or twice. It doesn't come around often, and we're lucky if it stays. Sometimes we take it for granted. Tonight, I'd like to post an ode to yesterday....
because I'm missing someone tonight, someone I haven't seen in a very long time, and the pain of missing him seems like yesterday.

Here's to inspiration.


The clouds have come and gone
The sun has risen and set a thousand times
The waves along the shore have not ceased to crash

Don't take you away from me
Don't take you away

I know we both have differences
And many more that don't hurt what we have

Don't forget about those.

I am at your mercy
And no one else's

No one else
Lures the love out of my heart
And into the one inside of me

Inside of me
You glide in me
You slide in me

And we collide in me
As if the moon and the sun met for the first time
And said to one another
I need you
To exist.

Oh, Love.

Let me be last on your list.
Let me be last
On your list.


-dmy 2000

SICK BITCH, PART 1

AAAAhhhhhhhh!!! I'm sick. Really fuckin' sick. I had been fighting a mild sore throat for about a week, then woke up the other day ready to die. My throat was swolen, my nose was stuffy, my body was weak, I had a headache and the chills. I tried calling into work but it didn't happen. I worked for 7 hours in a hot, smoke filled bar. On the bright side, I lost my voice and couldn't talk to those assholes. But when I got home, all hell broke loose. By the time I got in the door, I could barely stand or BREATHE for that matter. What is it with us that when we're sick, we regress back to babies and cry for our mommies or lovers or blow-up dolls? I called my raw foodist roommate (let's call him Rawboy) at work with the last bit of voice I could muster up. "Hey" I said when he answered the phone.

"Wow, you sound like shit".

That's all it took.
I wailed. "WWWAAAAAHHHBBLLLAAAAAGGRRRFFFFSHNF! I think I'm dying! You don't understand!" At home together, we barely speak. Now I needed him to save my life. Give me a carrot. Give me anything.

"Do you want me to bring you something?"

(crying) "I don't know what I need.... can you get me some of that apple juice? And if you're not afraid of the medicine isle, some Theraflu? Nighttime, not daytime."

"Ok. I'll be getting out of here soon."

"byeeeeee........waaaaahhhhhh......"

As I waited for him to get home, I laid on the couch and cried for someone to take care of me. I acted like a baby and I didn't care. As a matter of fact, Rawboy made a comment about me crying and I said "I don't fucking care!"

So Rawboy comes to my aide, with the goods and a movie. How sweet. How heroic. He even made my cup of Theraflu. We sat on the couch together watching a movie, blowing our noses all night. But there was something missing that I really needed. AFFECTION, GODDAMMIT! I really needed affection. A companion to hold my sick ass and rub my damn back. When our health is good, we don't need anyone. When we're sick, we can't stand to be alone. Or is it just me?

The next day Rawboy and I decided to stay in and watch movies with our Theraflu and organic hot tea- boiled, not microwaved, of course. He began his ritual of juicing everything in the kitchen he could possibly juice. He brings me a cup of green liquid and says "This is the healthiest thing you'll ever put in your body".

"Besides your penis?"

the end.

Stranger Things...

Soooo, I got a new alarm clock today that sets itself as soon as you plug it in. I've been going through a stage with my alarm clocks, that is, not being satisfied with any of them. This one is my third clock since Christmas, and I think it's a keeper. But I do find it very strange that all I do is plug it in and the big, digital numbers spaz out immediately and land on the correct time. The damn thing even knew what date it was. What in the hell is out there in the world that gives off a signal so strong that it reaches the little clock radio in my bedroom?? Weird. Scary. Weird and scary.

I'm sad to say the point of this rant is not alarm clocks. It is about Vicks vapor rub. MAN, that stuff is strong. Seriously, though- it is about change. REAL, hard-core, no-turning-back change. Like a sex change operation or motherhood. Since my scheduled sex change operation isn't until March, let's focus on the topic of motherhood. HOLY SHIT. That's all I have to say... I need to get this off my hairy chest because it's a heavy flood of thoughts- mostly downer, stressful, I want to kill myself now thoughts that consume my entire being on a daily basis. I want to know- Does anyone know what they're getting into?? I've been asked a hundred times by friends and not friends "If you could go back in time and do things differently, would you?" I assume most people would expect my answer to be "NO. Are you kidding? I love my daughter and I wouldn't change a thing blablablajfhejfhwjfpqipedhk!" But deep down, WAY deep down in the darkest abyss of me, I say "YES. Yes, I love my daughter, but....." but I miss my old life. I do. Alot. And the guilt of it is overwhelming at times, but I think about my old life everyday. Old life as in "before I got pregnant" life. My good friends hear me bitch about it constantly, and they deserve a big THANK YOU for putting up with me for so long. Especially since none of them have any children of their own, because God is merciful and knew that they'd all be shitty parents. It's true. They'd admit it. But why me?

I know why. It was Halloween, year 2000, and I was wearing my "naughty nurse" costume. I was also bartending in downtown San Diego and had a little too much vodka. Looking back, I think I could have sued one or the other. There is no label on a sexy Halloween costume or a bottle of vodka that says "Could cause pregnancy- could cloud judgement and CAUSE PREGNANCY". I always said, if a woman can sue a McDonald's for a hot coffee burn, then I could sue Absolut for my pregnancy. I should be a millionaire.

Oh, back to alarm clocks. So now that my daughter has lived to see elementary school, I am awakened daily by my fucking alarm clock at 6:30AM. The school bus comes at 7:15, so I must wake up before the damn Waffle House is even open to see her off to school. I used to sleep until 11 or 12, waking up naturally and peacefully from a nice dream about Brad Pitt. Now I dream about over-sleeping, forgetting my daughter at Target, and evil bill collectors beating me with their headsets. Debt. Another joyful attribute to parenthood. How did I ever get into so much damn debt?? The house, the dog, the toys and clothes and happy meals and movies and private pre-school.....the list goes on and on. All the things you think they need to have a perfect, happy childhood- and you sacrifice your own wants, your own needs, and all of your "spare" money-for this stuff. An endless sea of needs and items, and endless days of work ahead. My weekend in New York was a rare treat to myself, and now I'm back in the grind of catching up. Will this all end upon my community college graduation?

I looked someone up on MySpace recently. A guy I used to see in San Diego. We were close and had a good relationship for a while. We were happy with each other. The chemistry was unusual and we were rarely apart. But we were the type of people who shyed away from commitments, and monogamy was never discussed. So I strayed, on several occasions, with the same man. And he was the one I was with on Halloween. Damn. Life comes at you fast. (Wasn't that from a car insurance commercial?) So I looked him up on MySpace and there he was, in many pictures, looking good and happy in them all, and there was a girl. Of course, there was a girl. It's been 6 years! 6 years and it was still hard to see him with someone else. Is it because she has my life? Would it have been me if I could go back? Is it because the pregnancy ended our relationship and not something else? Pathetic, you may think, I know. But what people don't understand is that time stopped for me then. The moment of my big change, time stopped. It went on for everyone else. In my mind, I'm still lying on the beach, still sleeping with his arms wrapped tightly around me. Physically, we move on. We have no choice. But mentally, the memories never fade. The "what if's" never stop. I have a beautiful, healthy, smart little girl. Life is as good as it can be for me, considering my circumstances. I am grateful. I should be happy.

So as I type, I glance at a picture of me taken in Miami. I'm standing next to a bum in a wheelchair. He is wearing a tye-died t-shirt that reads "PEACE" and a paper hat covered in cut-outs of bikini clad women. My arm is around him and I have the biggest smile ever. He does too. What a great picture. I was 21. The picture is next to a rock I took from a beach in San Diego. I took the rock to remind me of that night.

So. How do I conclude this story. I still don't know. My life now? It couldn't be more different. I went from no responsibility to all the responsibilty in the world. My youth is slowly slipping away and it's hard to let go. But as for the days ahead, I'm hoping for another picture like the one in front of me. I'm waiting. As for me now, I don't feel complete unless my daughter is here, next to me, asleep in my bed. That's something. That's what I have now and all is good. I do, however, forsee a mid-life crisis at 40.

Lenny and the Apple

I discovered over Super Bowl weekend that I can't live in New York. I went there for a weekend visit to see my gay friend, Ray, (yes, I always refer to him as 'my gay friend, Ray') although I have many gay friends. What people don't realize is that I think it's cool to be gay, and letting you know I have a gay friend is like boasting... anyway, my gay friend, Ray, bought us tickets to see Lenny Kravitz at a small venue in Manhattan on Friday, the night I arrived. But let me back up.

When I got to the Richmond airport, I ran into a friend of mine, a wine rep, who happened to be on my flight to New York. (For those of you who don't know, a wine rep is a person who sells wine to stores and restaurants.) Coincidentally, as I was DRIVING to the airport, I pulled up next to ANOTHER wine rep friend of mine on the highway. We waved to each other and gave each other that "OH MY GOD- WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" look. 2 wine reps on the way to Manhattan. The message was clear- God was trying to tell me to drink lots of wine in New York.

When I got off the plane in Queens, my wine rep friend had the bright idea to share a cab to Manhattan. I have NO friggin' idea how far this is from us, and how big this city actually is. So we're IN the cab, with a disgruntled cabbie who just got screamed at by another cabbie for tailgaiting, and discovered on the way that our 2 destinations were on opposite sides of the city. I told the cabbie we were sharing the ride, and he threw a New York fit, saying that I would have to pay from the airport, not my friend's stop. So I got out and took another damn cab. It was pouring down rain and I had a huge, heavy suitcase. Fuck him.

I headed to Ray's job, where I was to pick up his apartment keys, then head to his place and wait for him to get home. But for some reason, NY cabbies don't like multiple destinations so he didn't wait. I ran in and got the keys, but not before I got stuck in the revolving door with my suitcase. A local woman yelled through the glass and pointed to the handicapped door next to me, as if to say "Hey, asshole- wrong door!" Boy, was THAT embarrassing... I just got there, and am no longer disguised as a cool New Yorker. I took another cab to Ray's place in the lower east side. He makes good money and lives on a trendy street with lots of really cool people on it, thank God! I was hungry, so I lugged my 45lb suitcase up 5 flights of stairs to Ray's place (he said I'd hate it, but it was good for my ass) and got settled before I ventured back out and stumbled upon a hot dog joint across the street. The word "fucked" was on the menu, and it made me happy. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I needed to live in a place where the word "fuck"was used freely, like the word "the" or "a". I knew I belonged somewhere, and now I found it. Until Sunday. I was ready to come home by Sunday.

Raining and waiting in line for Lenny Kravitz would have been fine, if I hadn't straightened my hair. I hate the fucking rain, only because it ruins my hair. Anyway, Ray and I head straight to the bar, where vodka was surprisingly cheap and the drinks were strong. So two vodka-crans into the opening act, Lenny comes out with a thundering bang that wakes us all up and reminds us why we're all there in the first place. Except for Ray, who wanted to see him shirtless. Lenny's shirt stayed on, but for me his performance was not only amazing, but necessary. Since having my daughter and landing in the world of single-parenthood, I don't get to venture out much. It had been years since I spent any time in a big city and had forgotten how much my soul needed that energy- the energy of masses of free spirited, crazy, happy people running around in a transcient, crazy-skitzo city bliss. I used to live in that mess, and although at times I was sad, I also discovered a beauty and love for life I never had before. And inspiration! Inspiration for days..... So Lenny comes out in Rock Star style, all leathered up, with the lights and guitars and drums and a sound system that no treble or bass in any Circuit City could compare to, and the tears start streaming down my face. I couldn't control them. It was as if the vibrations from the speakers were going through me from my feet to my head, forcing all emotion from the last 7 years out through my eyes. New York. Lenny Kravitz. A bunch of happy, crazy people. GOD, I need this. I need this. I am found. The pre-mommy girl is still in here, looking for an out. Gay men know just what I need. Period. Thank you, Ray.

The rest of my trip was spent at ATM machines, restaurants, and stores. I ran into several people I knew from Richmond, which served as a reminder of just how small this world can be. I had a long, overdue converstaion with a childhood friend about her father's passing, and some more much needed tears were shed. I spent time talking with store owners and bartenders about everyday things and got a pretty good taste of the city. I ventured out on my own in search of my balls. All in all, it was a good, productive trip. But after 2 days, I missed my daughter and my bathroom. For some reason, I'd like to say I could live in New York. But I can't. I'm just too spoiled. I need my car, a house, a dog, a big bathroom, and the ocean. I need California. Fuck the rain. And small apartments with stairs. And $25 credit card minimums. And tiny bathrooms. And cabs.