Bunkbed Breakthroughs

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I have always been what I call the eternal optimist, and it is true, I do believe in the best of people, almost to a fault. While I have been often criticized for attracting the nut jobs, not allowed to walk into the store for my reputation to find a friend while sampling cheese is so common and distracting for most, I usually am told to wait in the car. Not anymore.

HELL NO.

I got sick to death of the leach energy stealing time and life draining emotional vampires that I had come to a good place, deciding to become a more balanced and aware person of where my time and attention went.

Then, a few facebook stalking fools and a psycho date here and there along with a family fallout made me discover I wasn’t that at ALL, I had been naive, an open target to all who wanted to dump any problem. When I found out from Thelma, who looked at me confused once, as I vented about how much I didn’t want to discuss this or that, she said something brilliant, or known, who knows.

“You do know you don’t have to tell anyone anything you don’t want to tell, right?”

What? What the hell is she talking about? I thought.

“Wait a minute, come on. You have to know that when people ask questions, even if I am uncomfortable, I know it is because I am so open, I mean my life is already a public blog so I rarely complain, right?”

She didn’t agree, which shocked me. She said who gave a damn, I owed nothing to anyone, and my life was my own, and this was a boundary problem.

Holy Shit. She was right.

I enjoy writing, and my own words, by myself, and I like looking back later and reading stories of my girls, my life is as surprising to me as a stranger, my memory of yesterday, is

Wait. What happened yesterday?

See what I mean. But, I don’t enjoy discussing these private issues or being distracted or feeling angry I wasted time on people who didn’t even care. This is the new me, I thought, glaring down the grocery clerk who usually tells me to put back items cause they were not on sale. Sometimes I do, just because it makes her feel better, and I don’t mind.

Not anymore.

I do mind.

I do have a filter, I just didn’t know I was allowed to use it.

Plus, the displaced anger is helping this, since finding out this past year that most humans appeared to be blood sucking vampires that would eat your heart and vomit back what they didn’t want, leaving you broken, hurt, destroyed, as they appeared content, as long as the next victim was lined up first, proving your love never even mattered.

I promised myself to protect the little girl in me that felt so unsafe and powerless to never believe she was entitled to anything private, or that would mean she wasn’t loving.

I thought having your own private life or dreams and experiences made you a withholding unloving fake, someone who lived a lie or a secret, so I offered up all information to anyone I met, so they would know how honest I am.

I have liked this but have been a little bit angry and more cynical than usual, my guard up, ready to put the “STRANGER DANGER” cross X with my hands, any person walking towards me for any reason was not going to be aware I wasn’t a fool, that I saw straight past their bullshit.

So, today I got up early for Jury Duty, the last crazy I attracted, recorded and blogged should tell you I knew this was the prime place to be prime pickings for the crazy, so I had a game plan folks.

It was kind of fun. I feel like a detective.

I walked in, scanned the room, full of people, a thrilling thought at one time, but that was the old me, you see. I saw the old nanny chatty Kathy’s in the back, the old man going on and on to a row of people about his many jury duties experience, like he was some expert.

I saw the young mom types and thought about it.

Nah, they will ask questions about the kids.

I saw the classic men cub with earphones in, eyes shut.

Damn, why hadn’t I thought of it?

I saw the old me, the few acting as if they had just been introduced to a soul mate because they found out they all lived right next to some school.

No shit, people. We are all here from the same county, duh. My cynicism felt like an umbrella, protecting me from a hurricane. Not too reliable, but it at least had a hopeful plan.

SO, I saw a woman quietly reading who looked as exciting as a librarian at a night club, picked my target seat, no one else would be able to sit on an end seat even better, so yes, this was it.

Is this how introverts work normally? I just wondered that actually and I find it interesting.

She didn’t look up. Perfect. Whew. I was doing great, especially without a laptop, which made me pissy, not knowing you could bring one, but being not a morning person and already grouchy helped.

Until that damn receptionist lady, who had been the same one for my divorce, who I wanted to scream “I KNOWWW YOU!!!!!” loud with enthusiasm, like she would give a damn, so I squirmed.

Didn’t even say a word. Getting good, people, getting real good.

Then, we were issued a seat number where the dude said we would have to make real close friends with the person on the left and right, and my stomach sank.

Shit. I got nervous. What if I got the crackhead in the back, talking non stop, asking questions, or the god awful lady at the coffee station, all nosy, telling people they needed to try her cream from home, which she brought in her purse.

So of course, I heard my name, told myself to focus not look up, watch for sudden conversation starters and look at book at all questions. Repeat, I thought, Repeat.

And yes, of course, I sit down look up and a man my age in a blue shirt tight around his muscles with a nice tan and pearly white teeth smiles.

Fuck.

Oh, look to the right, look to the right, I thought, and damn if the Universe isn’t a pain in my ass but there sat a man cub, emerald green eyes sparkling with humor, looking like his mom just dressed him, all uncomfortable and ADHD in his seat.

Fuck me.

I sat down, stone cold.

No one said a word, and I felt like I was about to explode from holding in about a zillion comments, jokes, thoughts, questions, all banging up and down, asking to get out, then pleading.

“Hey,” sexy blue shirt man said, in a low whisper.

“You think they would let a Government High School teacher out of this on his only break, ya know?” He was holding a phone with an adorable photo of his little boy.

I smelt friendly, nice, interesting, and harmless.

So, the bubble burst. “You teach High School? What grade? Do you love it? Did you always know?“

My natural curiosity led to many interesting topics and man cub entered in by saying, “Dude. My mom had to pick me up from Athens last night just to get me here on time.”

He listened to my recent adventure of the crazy woman and how I almost went to jail for missing (http://buddhathepig.wordpress.com/2011/05/04/jury-duty-and-my-new-nickname-miss-geraldo-rivera/) and laughed his ass off, and before you know it, we got dismissed but a few of us stayed behind to finish the documentary below, a great documentary on a underwater scuba diver, which I added at end for your enjoyment.

When we departed, I was a little sad, wishing we had exchanged facebook requests.

And now, looking back, as I read this, I am beginning to see the lesson.

I don’t have to lose who I am to not get hurt. That alone makes me want to join a Gospel choir, my joy and relief that I am growing, not drowning, the sad fact is while in the lesson, it is hard to know the difference.

And then, in my bunk bed, Lola who requested we share the bottom in the month of June and the top the month of July, is the best roommate I ever had.

Almost asleep, thumb in mouth, eyes closed, she whispered, “Mommy.”

“Yes baby?” I was reading a self help book with the lamp on.

“You can cuddle with me any time, okay?“

Broken hearts do heal, not over night, but holding her and thinking of my day reminded me of all that comes when you adhere to your own personal truth and convictions. It is worth all the loss, all the broken pieces, for the courage to be one’s true self is the battle, the hope that sits on your baby’s long gorgeous eyelashes, with the moon out, dolls on the ends of your feet, for if you just look, you will find it.

Hope is the ability to test all you know to become all who you always wanted to become. And if I find this is not the case, I at least know one thing for sure.

Next month I get to be on the top bunk, and if the Universe crumbles around me, I have already what really matters in life.

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Three Amigos

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There is nothing like deleting old emails all morning only to break out into the ugly cry, Lola and Kat at first concerned,

“Mom, is it Sammy?“

He died two years ago, my 14 year old dog.

 

“Mom, you can put these blankets around your shoulders to make it all fancy,” Lola consoles, of course, by fashion wear. She once told me she was in my tummy and the whole time she was thinking, “When, oh when, are they going to let me change my clothes!”

Kat studies me when I cry, analytically, like she has never seen my face before, or if she were logically counting tear drops for a homework assignment.

The only thing worse than having a broken heart is your kids knowing it.

Then, they put on my “favorite” song, despite the fact I hate Katy Perry, go figure, and did a dance show until I laughed so hard the snot didn’t even bother me, the pain burning in my heart was numbed like someone slapped vapor rub on it.

Before you know it, the moment passed, they were fighting over the wi remote, my puffy eyes are all thats left, and I say loudly, “Act like a real writer!“

I was going to write about something serious today, and actually you know, edit, or read it, for the love of God.

I was, I REALLY was, but I found this in my email account, no date, before I had a blog I suppose.

“Wow. So, we were running a “CRYSTAL GIRL” errand, which Kat, Lola, sometimes Nana and I, are the Crystal Girls, an exclusive group, and Kat and I start scheming. So, I say, “Kat, you know where B lives?”

“Whittaly.” No, I say, “FLORIDA,” with a smile. Lola first says, ”When I see that nice man B, I am gonna kiss and love him and hug him” she said, eyes so big!

Kat said, “Yeah, and HE is a NICE man, and DADDY likes him, and on the chatter went…
Then it hit.
Lola crumples her face and says, “And B will NEVER ever Eat Bad Stuff and TURN his HEART BLACK and leave us or die, Mommy! NEVER, EVER!”
Knocked the wind out of me…… 

I pulled into the QT and parked the car, and looked at her.

“Lola, love, tell me where it hurts.” She shook her head, “NO!”
Kat put her hand on Lola, who put her head into the leather, and I said, “Lola, my heart hurts because of Papa, does yours?”
She gave me one eye from her pudgy baby hands, peeking in, through the tears. “And I don’t know if Daddy or Nana or my boyfriend B will die or leave, but…”
I was about to launch into one of my Mommy speaches, and I am one of those moms that has to annoy even a seven year old to death to make sure its all said,
so Kat interrupted, “Lola, she said.. You’ll always have me.”
And they hugged and I wept.

This morning ended up a lot like that, no babies, now big girl dance queens, in my heels and sunglasses, on a fake stage, but even the same, it hit today. And no mommy was there to give a fake speech, but who needs fake speeches, and living dogs, old boyfriends, dads, holidays, phone calls or birthday parties? Not me. It is far overrated when you have Katy Perry twins, singing badly and loudly, my words from the email blurred into one as I cried all over again, reading the last line.

And they hugged and I wept.

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The Second Funeral

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I have several topics rick racking my brain today. I want to post about my first angry comment to a blog, and what it provoked, what changed as the result. I want to post about Lola and I moving in to bunk beds, no “roomie” is more comical, every day I have a better story.

 

Then, my job, my therapist, the first assignment of having to put my picture in a frame, to “say nice things” to the little girl within.

I have been assigned to bring her treats, people.

I want to draw a mustache, give her a bottle of jager, tell her to sleep it off, but even that I have been procrastinating. Thelma and I can’t let the jokes go long enough to be serious.

But, what lies in the pit of my stomach, aching to be expressed, scratching my inner thoughts like a claw to a kitty pole, is my sister by soul, Heather Murphy.

She asked I use her real name.

You see, this woman, a friend of mine by a year or so, although sorrow tells time in a different way, if you ask me. Time is measured by the stories we share, the pieces we let strangers see, the depth of us that loved ones may go to the grave never shown. They can know all our traits, but pass right by us, strangers to the stories we hold locked..

It is a key we share, and so time becomes marked by who is given a key, and who is hidden as we hide the key away, under the mat of our hearts.

Heather’s child, Olivia Garcia, at one years old, was murdered by her best friend, involuntary manslaughter, the details horrifying, and to make it even more ghastly, extremely public.

Her once dear friend, Oliva’s Godmother, Amanda Brumfield, is the estranged daughter of Billy Bob Thornton, so my stomach sickens as I watch my cursor spell his name, blink and wave, my thoughts on this blog run rapidly through emotions, on a time belt I can’t control the speed.

Olivia, who died the day before her first birthday, I revisited a year ago in a blog, “Olivia Maddy Marie, a “Tribute” for Heather Murphy“, being careful to not disclose any information that might affect her trial.

Now the trial is over, Heather’s reality is a hell not only she had to revisit on stand, not allowed to cry, having to see this woman who hurt her baby, witness photos no mother can imagine, swallow guilt that no person should have to endure, not by media, not for this.

I have a new outlook on life because of her, on what we read, on money and fame, magazines, news feed and journalists. It makes me sick.

Divorcee casually discussed the trial while reading People Magazine on-line, my knees giving out, blood rushing to my head, forcing me to sit down. I had not yet known the verdict.

“Wow. Thirteen to Thirty years for Involuntary Manslaughter,” he gasped.

I blurred the news with my hands, hoping to filter anything I could not handle in the moment, when one teeny thing caught my eye.

A fucking Facebook “Like” button, that’s what.

What have we come to? I could piss fire on this moment alone, much less the public misinformation, the reality of her nightmare, her agony that Baby Liv is googled, and all her name shows are Billy Bob Thornton photos and media accounts of this woman, this daughter of a celebrity, estranged.

Heather Murphy, a victim, is a person, real to me, your sister, friend, boss. To see her agonized if she should do “Inside Edition” for they will ask her God knows what, for news, while she worries she will be seen as a mother wanting her moment in the public eye. Then, she feels sadness and anger, Baby Liv is not even seen as a little girl, her girl, a sissy lost forever, and the sentence Heather received will never end, not ever. She wants her baby to be seen, her voice heard, to matter.

And so, she is asking me to help her with the day she does speak, to the jury, to the world, and so, “Will I take photos of her baby things, her little keepsakes only a mommy can cry upon knowing the importance, the ashes, the memory book?”

I cry at just the thought of what it must feel to be her, and fear it just as much, then my own wretched hope that she be heard is an aching tunnel, a hollow echo, a dark hall I know she walks every day, but will people turn, look, turn on the light?

I don’t know.

Maybe not, but I will light a torch, for Olivia Garcia, will use my keystrokes, my camera, my voice, my outrage. I will burn the hall behind me, no father or a platform, nothing of importance to offer the public, no dirt to offer the media to eat, a dry dust in my mouth is the Ribeye steak they drool for, and yet, always hungry, never satisfied.

No one wants to be famous for this, and Olivia is gone, a discussion for people over breakfast, her pain raw as an unbeaten egg in your blender, the details of her dead child a passing discussion, while passing the butter.

I do know what I don’t have, but there is one thing I got.

I have love.

In the end, it is all life is worth.

For Heather, I will always answer “yes,” her wedding to a man I saw her meet, I am so thankful to photograph, even if it is heartbreaking to watch her plan, the details Bridezillas go nuts over, she hasn’t the energy to even care.

While I was thinking of this, this song came on, chilling me, her words etched in my heart over the phone, “You know,” she said.

“It will be the sentencing, but really, it will be my arrival to her second funeral.”

If you will, repost, stumble, and most of all, pray.

I strongly believe prayer is the bullet on which our voice rides, and this woman needs ammo, the only kind love is made from.

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“How to Learn Poetry” with a Personality Quiz.

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“Call me Cheezy, Call me a Fool,

I like my men Nerdy, my chicken Spicy,

dr. P is my h20, the fizzy saliva I call Drool.

crafts, apps, and starbucks be my positive Blood Type

juicy coutore, from goodwill, is the toilet Fabric of my Wipe.

widgets, strobes, tumbler, are equal to my Jizz

But nothin in life don’t thrill me, like a Thelma “Personality Quizz.”

That, was for the Premium Members, a special rap, since I forgot to send your newsletter out last month. Oh, wait, I did.

It was titled, “Bend Over.”

For the less wealthy of you, I am giving a special top ten best ways to bend over just for you, for subscribing today.

Now, back to Thelma, who gives the greatest quizzes, not Cosmo style, but usually discovering if you are Narcissistic, Borderline, Schitzoid, ADD, a huge lover of psychology, we talk “Silence of the Lambs” until the sun goes down.

I’m her perfect crazy friend, which she makes me laugh so much from her astonishment over the last six months getting to know me, has been,

“Huh. Um, so, you do actually stop talking?”

“OMG. I see it. I think you talked like a fast maniac only when your nervous!”

“Wait a second, wait a minute. Her big psychological discovery today was that I might actually, well, she hates to tell me, but, logical.”

I laughed in her face. She explained the rational brain, how it works, how I like sequence and organized plans, was book smart, and bigger words to basicly say I could possibly be linear.

The Collector says in fact I am, but I just don’t know when it’s happening.

So, we took the “Please Understand Me II, Personality Quiz” and we are eerily similar, a page separating us, just into a healer, and me, the Champion.

Turns out that little quiz described me perfectly, even to myself, and with exception to the several Thelma grunts over the shit she calls “negative” and “harsh” compared to the other types list of traits.

It turns out only a few percent, a rare amount of “Champions” are out there, people who take pride in a cause, will stop at nothing to create emotional experiences to lead for personal growth, can be vivacious and rowdy, getting everyone hurdled together for a meeting, but forget to actually plan it.

Out of all the types, the “Champion” hates conformity, subordination, although a pleaser of people and crowds, finds purpose and meaning in standing for something, if not everything.

Well, seeing as I have never been a conformist, love passionate Spiritual leaders and can write a mean rap, it takes Thelma in 70 questions, totals up the embodiment of my Spirit.

I love studying the way people think, and it helps, to study our many porcupines in life, to make us aware that they are as important in their ideals and beliefs as we are, that they matter, that we are part of a big unit, not one not affecting the other, and vice versa.

I kind of like being a “Champion,” annoying her already I’m sure, my 800 dollar computer cost a manager took care of, my text in high “Champion” style, was pouting in a three hour Kroger line not much after,discussing all the people’s lives in the small circle of strangers waiting for blood pressure medicine, vitamins for pregnancy, allergy relief, and unfortunately for them, I have come down with the usual ADD, or blabber mouth.

I should have told them to sign up for my plan, to see if my issue of ways to “Bend Over,” could entice them to heal arthritis, hay fever, too much salt.

Every Champion needs a cause, I just can’t decide which one is worthy.

That’s what I have Thelma for, and thank God, people, for that.

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Cryptic Therapy

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I have major issues with psychotherapy, psychology, therapy, hell, even Dr. Phil gives me the eeby- jeebies. It’s the way he links arms with Robin, at the end, with all that ridiculous waving. Bald or not, I don’t trust anyone with a wife whose teeth are that white.

My first therapist was a lovely lady picked out by mom, who told her everything I said, my father as well, who looked as betrayed as I felt. I should have known, leaving the office while she bawled into tissues, my mom consoling her.

There was Divorcee, who in his first office “visit” became so medicated, the man had been put on a “starter” pack, pretty much leaving anyone less than 200 pounds to foam at the mouth. But, it wasn’t until I met Dr. Starsky, who refuses to read my blog while being sued for making sexual advances to a patient, I  had to dig deep, really deep.
“Come on ya’ll, of course she was innocent!”
I was horrified for her. No man had ever been looked at sexually, ever, the audacity.
That was before I of course, realized she was a lesbian.
I was in a terrible place, my marriage broken, anxiety through the roof, and I couldn’t bear looking at Kat and Divorcee without full knowledge I had done everything to make our family whole. Tall and super skinny with a Streisand nose, Dr. Starksy, was given a nickname by Kat, a teeny thing back in those days. I thought the first meeting had gone unusually well, especially with no payment. She knew I was broke and I couldn’t argue, so she treated me with no financial arrangement.
This began to bug me after a few months, which she assured me that all the insurance companies for rich people were taking care of me. Three receptionists later, I realized she was probably being ripped off, her love of helping was taking it’s toll, so of course, I decide to put forth the extra patient effort, my gratitude equal to my financial shame.
I decorated her office, bringing all types of ugly animal jungle art and sculptures, which she just loved. I brought things for her desk, her favorite Starbucks,and  when she began refusing my gifts, I was stumped.
It had gotten a little hairy for sure, our agreement to sell her expensive jewelry and leather jackets, and brand new MAC, a barter system for treatment with payment of eBay services.
That is how I discovered the break up letter to Diane.
I had no idea lesbian break ups were so nasty.
I argued she should not be giving profits to me, defeating the point of our agreement. I also didn’t appreciate being told I was an idiot for being pregnant with Lola, not after I spent an entire day with the Poster Boy of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, a Vietnam Veteran, God bless him. We were helping her move her office, secretary number 26 and I, again. The guy ordered me to lick stamps like I were trained to kill, between war and Jesus stories, his eyes would tick and he would proceed to hold his breath, the red flushing up his neck and into his bulging eyeballs.
“What did I SAY about double stamping before weighing!”
The guy made me nervous, but I must admit after numerous times being given numbers of male patients to date, Dr. Starsky said nice men would cure me now I was finally single, I was shocked back to reality. I replied, “Finally?”

She said she only wanted to help, and so I purchased my first boundaries book, my wheels the final patient exit wave. 

I did look her up, a few months ago, and she looked horrible, not allowed to prescribe meds by court order, she said no one appreciated real help so she was thinking of going into psych wards, where the real sickos were. Until full circle, a “supposed” professional therapist offered by a respected friend, the help I so want with much hesitation, I’m going… Can you imagine?

Our first meeting shall go something like this:

“This IS NOT my first rodeo lady. I know your game. I will NOT tolerate you calling my mom, who will be spoken only of in secret code. I will only pay by cash ONLY, so any notion I will put motorcycle clothing items on Ebay for you, well, you will have more than tax fraud reported. 

And, “This is awkward, I shall say, being as non lesbian like as possible, “but I am NOT some piece of meat, am bi-hopeful, the right girl hasn’t appeared even if I do love Katy Perry.Oh, and I read all about boundaries.”

Then I will give her the snake eye, to make my point, and when I finish, what, Dear God, would anyone have to say after that?

We shall see. She better have her game face on.

This is Rocky in Movie 6. I don’t have another come back left.

“Go hard or Go Home,”  I should say, but regardless of the line, I shall start ripping her envelopes in a threatening way, cause I don’t have time to waste.

In times like these, I have no choice but to wear a bug.

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For all the broken, a love letter.

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Here I am, a month after deciding to never write again.

I have grieved hot collar soaked tears for accusations of my writing being “abusive” and “selfish,” a deer in massive confusion, headlights, big moving powerful blows to the body and soul have come out of nowhere, just me, licking my wounds, wondering what the fuck just happened.

If only I had been hit by a car.

I was afraid the intentions of my heart would never be shown, that if being known for 33 years brought this much adversity over my views on life and my journey, and I had lost valuable relationships because of that, well, I just gave up.

I gave in.

Beautiful things occurred as well, not just my relationship with Thelma, or the promise of our hard work beginning to take exciting new turns, my girls a daily part of me now, and sleep, I had gotten down to three numbers on my phone, even that had felt overwhelming.

The best news is that Lola and I share a room, and bunk beds, a post I can’t wait to write, for another day.

Tonight is about the pull to myself, writing being the nucleus to my soul, and I made a decision to that soul, the shame, the fear.

I will write, rather it be harmful, selfish, abusive, or cruel.

I am not responsible for the people I have caused pain, for they chose to read, and they chose to leave. I am only responsible for me, and if one day, I see that I was wrong, I will write about that as well, asking all my jurors and God, supposedly the ultimate Judge, for forgiveness.

I got a letter from my father, just a few hours ago, hence my inability to sleep, my frustration over my first post written with joy in my mind is now erased, his words replaced.

I have no doubt in my vulnerability been seen or read, and even with that, I ask how writing this horrible little blog could ever have served me, for if I were selfish, I would have kept my secrets and image, my relationships in tact, my little lie of a life safe.

Not today, nor tonight, the wound so deeply cut I want to run and run, like Jenny in Forrest Gump, get on a bus and ask God to make me a bird to fly far far away, a fist of stones I would throw, straight at him for wanting to hurt me again and again, straight at her for saying she loved me, when I weep for like a little girl, I don’t even care..

I want my mommy to tell me love is something real.

And she won’t even pick up the phone, nor return my last email, in which I begged like a pathetic teen for a boy who didn’t love her, to come back, to just please forget it all, say she was sorry, and do the right thing.

“Come back to me,” I cry, and she isn’t and won’t, the reality I sit in tonight, wondering what the fuck this God means by salvation, love, mercy, and hope, the very things she taught me, all the verses memorized still run through my mind.

I know something amazing will show up from this, in my silly positive little jar of bullshit or fath that removes all mountains, which I don’t know, but I will hold on to it, and wait.

If I can get through this night, the loss, the silence, maybe just maybe, God will arrive.

Voices laugh and snarl that I am an idiot to hope, not for one more soul, but tonight I climb on the top bunk, as promised, with Lola, who along with Kat, are the best things I ever did.

“Mama,” she whispered.

“Yes, baby?” I had the night light on so I could read the other night.

Her little red head popped over the top bunk, and she put her hands up in animation, “YOU are the best roomie I could ever have. I could just cry over how you made our room so fancy.”

I had given Kat her own bedroom, for which she in exasperation and tears, rightfully claimed her sister could not respect her stuff, talked too much, was messy, and stole her things.

She has become alive in my room, while Lola, in a room with my heels and real make up and art supplies, chats and chats, both of us in constant trouble for forgetting over and over again, to not talk.

I had thought just the other day, how I was ready to come back, to write about how no woman in a house full of treasure and closets as big as my room had what I had.

My heart is broken as well as my silly dreams but I will not let them take my joy.

I will die before I give it away, and if it takes all that I am and have, I will not just survive this, I will float.

The first thing I wrote on the Happy Wall is appropriate now, its message I never knew would vibrate so strongly, “God doesn’t give us victory over war. He raises us off the batte field.”

Good night, dear cyber hearts, I need you more than ever, and it is an honor to return to you, for you have been loyal on your end, and I deserve that gift, and hope and pray I am not what they say, but that someone out there, in this cold heartless world, will be seen, changed, not alone, soothed, or inspired.

It is all I have left.

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Granny Panties and Free Steak

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Cute, but a little much with the Granny Panties

Too much Panty, Not enough Granny

Since family members strongly oppose to me writing about my personal life, so much so that I get deleted off facebook, even by my auntie, and Divorcee too, well, one might take this as an opportunity to throw a pity party or if PMS could be blamed, could be fair gain for a smear campaign.

Not this chick.

No, I decided it is past due time to put on my Granny panties, a term I threw in by no accident since the number one search term to find this ridiculous blog is “Granny Panties,” which has me far more bitter.

Seriously guys?

800 searches for Granny Panties?

I don’t even know when or why I wrote about such a thing, and I find this far more disturbing for any future sex life I wish to have, until I looked farther and found the search terms “killing people and putting them in dryers,” “penis shaped rice krispie treats,” “vietnamese men and how to excite them,” and a SHOUT OUT now…
For the poor person looking for her lost dog, try Craig’s list or your neighborhood vet.
For a week now, “please help me find my puppy,” and “where is my poor doggy” and “what to do when doggy doesn’t come home” can’t be daily coincidences, so if this finds you person with lost dog, please go to Google or yell down the street..

You’re breaking my heart.

I can’t say much about anything shaped like a penis much less as tasty as a Rice Krispie, nor have I dated a Vietnamese man, but whoever is wondering how to kill people by putting them in a dryer, you need serious help.

Haven’t you ever watched “CSI” or “America’s Most Wanted” for Christ’s sake?

If you plan on murdering by dryer, which is probably tough, what are you going to do?
Throw in some Snuggle dryer sheets so the body smells like a powdered baby’s ass?

Why the dryer?

I loved all the Rob Dyrdek searches, the one lady who wrote “single mom of four needs Rob Dyrdek’s sex machine” which is a lot of words for a search, but if you have four kids, again, I suggest Craig’s list.

I wonder if Craig’s List has families in need of a writer, a Historian, a poet or a rapper, yes, I do rhyme, after a jager bomb or two. I was thinking of starting a Facebook Fan Page for all people who have been deleted off facebook, not by a friend or an ex, but an elite group for family deletions.

We could get matching tshirts and swap recipes and stories of when and how the deletion occurred, perhaps a prize or a week with an adopted family could bring tears to the eye, like that “America…”

Dang it. What is that show? It’s the Tye guy who remodels homes for poor and needy people?
You know, “MOVE THAT BUS,” and everyone sobs and cries, while the entire town cheers as families that lost parents and are law abiding citizens get amazing homes paid in full?

Yeah, just like that.

America can vote, the fan who has the most bad ass deletion story by family will obviously win, and maybe some generous Tye type, even though I heard he was an alcoholic by Divorcee, who knows these sorts of things..

will buy him or her a steak dinner somewhere fancy.

We’ll set up a webcam and maybe not yell ‘MOVE THAT BUS,” but something more like, “CUT THAT STEAK!!”

Then, the sky will open and Granny Panties will fall, Rob Dyrdek will come out with Rice Krispie shaped dongs, Vietnamese men will surround the building, and some poor woman will have found her dog.

Don’t quit your day job, Tye.
I kind of like the idea of making dreams come true, one deleted fan at a time….

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Creep

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I love this song.

I find it epic in the human experience, to being alive, to open the emotions of the scared teenager approaching a hot girl, the newly divorced mom at a bar for the first time since signing the papers. I see these moments in my life, in my girls, and it is heartbreaking, really.

When I found this song covered by two of my favorites, I decided to go on a “Creep” hunt, and I was blown away at the artists who have covered this song, from Prince to the unknown Homeless man in a radio room.

I put them all on a cd, fascinated by the originality of each artist, and captivated at Radiohead’s ability to bridge the gap of so many souls through music.
It is timeless.
It is the journey.

Douchebags

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This is a lovely inbox message I got from a fifth grade teacher…. Does he think I’m into Photography or Pornography? Disturbing…….I guess it would seem pretty odd, asking for a bikini shot/pic, but really, Nothing big. You do weird things to me…it’s something different for me to deal with. I know I’ve never even met you, but when I wake up in the middle of the night, sleeping on my stomach with a rod between me and the bed, and I ACTUALLY KNOW why I have the erection and WHO it’s from…and then have to do something about the erection so that I can sleep without pent-up energy making me shaky with uncontrollable throbbing — well, let’s just say my libido/sex drive (again, with me never even seeing you) is at full strength. I can’t clear my head here at school, and I end up thinking some thoughts that I’m just glad can’t be read on my forehead, b/c they would be SUPER-inappopriate for kids! I think I just asked for the new pic b/c if I can’t meet you in person, then I want to see you in picture form, you know?

So, yeah, I still want a picture, if that’s O.K. Totally up you……………