Dog days of summer

So, its happened. I knew it for sure when I heard myself singing Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood in Nina Simone's register.

I'm bored. All my friends have real jobs now. Bob got his doctorate and has to have regular business hours. Liam isn't home. Lisa lives 2 hours away. I haven't seen Paul often enough to make demands on his time. Rich seems to be some kind of flake. Or, maybe he doesn't like me anymore. Gregg is globetrotting with his hot shot wife. Its just me. Alone. So I thought I'd keep a list of the riduculous things I do to pass the time.

First of these things is thinking. Some of the things I think about are:
Writing a letter to my grandmother
Sending my dad a card wishing him speedy recovery from his latest operation
Redoing my bedroom
Dying my hair blonde
Putting up a personals ad seeking friends who can commit to getting together once a month to talk about crap, and maybe eat barbeque

Other things I do:
Sing songs in the styles of artists I think are silly
Dance
Fantasize about skydiving from a hot air balloon
List things that annoy me. I think I'll compile them and post later
Wonder what his/her problem is
Wonder what the most regretted thing Charles Dickens (or others) ever did
Plan parties I'll never have-That's a good one. I will definately post that
Menu and shopping list planning
Find goofball songs and bands to listen to
Wonder what exactly a girl has to do to be a SuperFreak
Wonder, am I willing to do that? And, if so, under what circumstances?
What if boobs went up instead of down as we age?
Am I reading enough?
Do I have a backstory for my WOW alliance toon? I really hate my guild again.
Why, with all this time, do I still not have any friends?

Pennymaker Uncle Sometimes Me Mike Walter The Waitress The airport the swing fight
friends who mean well but are weak, friends who don't mean well at all
adoption by diplomats climate changes magic growing up formulas hidden in the snow
torture by the memory of water the red the blue the yellow
children drowning their parents as the parents push them forward but hinder them with tradition
the glorification of the past

Beggars

Today I did something I never do. Actually, I've been doing a lot of things I never do. Namely, I gave cash to a beggar.

He wasn't a fashionable washed beggar like the kinds that make nuisances of themselves at the off ramp from the highway. He was an unshaven, unkempt bike riding panhandler. I gave him the money because just the moment before I thought to myself that I was very blessed to have enough. I even had a little bit I could give away if asked. This was remarkable for me. I'm stingy. Or, if not stingy, I value money. I hoard it whenever possible. I give money to the homeless shelter and the food kitchen. I never give directly to panhandlers. There was something different about it today. Maybe it is that the weather is changing. Maybe its that I'm changing.

Right after I handed that smelly dude the money, I immediately questioned myself on my behavior. The local neighborhood has an anti panhandling campaign. I know giving encourages the down and out to show up and ask more often. Then theres the old question: will he use this money well or will he drink it away? Have I hastened his death or unhappiness? What if he od's with the money I gave him? I didn't ask how he would spend the money, I just wanted him to have a little peace, maybe some rest from the anxiety of not having enough.

I gave him a twenty. I knew exactly where in my wallet it was. Maybe I telepathically transmitted to that man he should ask me for money. I'm glad now that I did. I think its likely that a portion (maybe 100%) of the $20 I gave him ended up in alcohol or a drug of some type. $20 is enough for a meal from the store or a fast food establishment and a little bottle of something from the liquor store or a hit of something else from the kids at the skate park. At least I hope it is.

Dear Mr. Beggar,
I hope that the money I gave you today helped. I hope it reminded you that materialistic people like me can be okay. We aren't always selfish bastards. I hope it filled your belly and that gave you some comfort. I hope that if you did use some of it for drugs or alcohol, you found some peace. I hope that you won't always have to beg. I hope that you enjoy the sunshine and dry cool breezes. I hope that you won't often be hungry or for very long. I hope that freedom finds you and you are able to recognize and savor it. Thank you for being in my neighborhood today. Thanks for letting me challenge my stinginess. Thanks for reminding me that the sun shines on everyone, rich and poor and that sometimes everyone, rich or poor just likes to take a walk and nap in the sun. Good luck.

Boobs

I'm forty. I like it I guess. My body isn't the hard body of a television swimsuit model. Nor is it the athletic body of the girl skateboarders I see zoom by my house. Its a comfortably overweight for years kind of body. Its becoming less so since I've been doing more running and hiking. I'm solid muscle under a soft layer of "fluff' and skin. I'm pretty ok about my body. I recognize losses due to age. I've got the cellutlitey thighs. These are both sources of pride and "Oh my god!" freakout. The fitter I get, the bumpier they get. More muscle definition means more cottage cheese from knees to hips. I don't believe the ads in women's magazines, so I know that cellutlite is my destiny. Ditto for the grey hairs marbling my temples and the wrinkles/age spots on my forehead. The one thing I haven't been ready for is my boobs.

I thought as I lose weight my boobs would shrink. They always have before. They turn into tiny little bumps. What the hell happened? They just sit there. I look more like Eleanor Roosevelt than Gabriella Reese. I never expected this. I figured Victoria's Secret would keep my lovelies high and mighty well into my late 50s. I assumed Mrs. Teesdale from the Marx Brothers movies looked like her boobs hung out on her belly button because back then women wore chemises, not brassiers. How is this possible? My boobs love being level with my elbows. I wore Playtex living bras. I provided them support. I held them up when I ran and lifted them when I bounced. How can gravity do this to me? I feel gypped.

I've started noticing other women with this problem. Angelina Jolie for example. I predict it will happen for Salma Hayak. Actually the only women in media spotlight I don't notice this problem with are the ones who have had boob jobs. How does Pam Anderson keep her tits up so high? They are so damn big, they should be level with her belly button, not her armpit. Is it a surgical thing? Can doctors fix droopy boobs by replacing them with the inflatable models?

Heres the thing that is most unfair of all-Playtex bras are uncomfortable and itchy. Victoria's Secret bras are uncomfortable and binding. Sports bras dig into the shoulders and torso. Especially if they keep the girls from getting a work out too. So what good did any of those miracle garments do? My boobs still slide southward. Could I have been comfortable all these years in a tight ribbed knit tank to the same eventual outcome? What about lovely lacey cotton chemises instead of sweaty molded cups?

I don't want the boobs of a 20 year old. But I'd love to have the boobs of a 30 year old forever.

Being left for a lesbian

I can tell its allergy season. The outright weirdness of my dreams has increased.

Last night I dreamt that I was living in what amounted to a mansion or a castle. I lived in the pavillion in the center of the estates. It had a garden and a moat. It was filled with light and breezes and exotic fabric billowing curtains.
I lived there with my boyfriend and my youngest daughter. Liam headed out with Dave to do something and phoned in much of his role in the dream. K decided she really wanted a cat. There was a nice old lady who took in rescue animals across the valley. She had the perfect kitten, except it was ugly. I gave permission to K. We brought the animal home. Perfect kitten was awesome. We put her in the basement until we had safety proofed the home and estates.
I got busy with my gardening. Because we lived in an estate/castle there were other people in our close community. I seemed to be the overseer or at least a central point of connection between them. I was very busy but not seeming to do very much. Liam phoned home. I told him about the cat. He told me fine, and since he had been out and talking with Dave he had become dissatisfied. Because of my thoughtlessness he now needed something technical called a "tacky." I was stunned. He was breaking up with me. He immediately appeared before my eyes. Yes, he was breaking up with me. The not so hot lesbian living with her partner to the North wanted him. She was very tall and blonde and not attractive at all. She looked like a drugged out version of Diane with a short shag and no boobs. He walked out on me with her. I stood there amazed at how even in my life I play a supporting role.
But then I got on with the business of day to day life. Just to try me, I suppose, he started calling me all the time. We talked as friends will. I was mad and not just a little hurt, but I was determined to give myself time to adjust to the curves life was throwing me. I loved him very much so I tried to be there for him even though I recognized that he didn't want me as a partner. What? I was wrong? He did? He left hastily and hadn't thought out how much he'd miss me? Well lets give it another try then. Move back. There's plenty of room, we can see a much or as little of each other as we like. I'm sorry about having to get the "tacky." It was not really a big deal? He needed one anyway? It was just an excuse? Ok then. Another woman you say? (Sigh.) I guess you'll have to bring her. Lots of room and all. It was settled.
Imagine my suprise when this woman was Angelina Jolie.
They seemed happy together. I kept busy to the point of exhaustion. I baked and ran and played on the beach. I hung out with my kid and played video games. Ang liked ordering me about and acting very cold and accusing. It was as if she expected me to jump into some type of backstabbing competition. Had the circumstances been different, I might of, but come on, Angelina Jolie? My man gets the best part of Brangelina and I try to ruin it for him? No way. Liam and I weren't together at all. I kept to my space only intruding on them as duty and Angelina's requests dictated. I felt that she was setting up situations that would make me fail, feel small, blow my top and lash out. I don't know how she did it, but she ruined an entire batch of pies I baked. She never called me out or gloated over my failures, but she remained steadfast in watching me and making Liam aware of my faults.
For some reason the pies were different. I think I handled the smoking oven and baked on cherry goo well. She said something to me in passing, something demeaning and classist. We got into an argument. She accused me of having an affair or something with Liam. He just wasn't truly connecting with her. I told her she was crazy. She was/is Angelina Jolie or crying out loud. I'm just a round bodied nobody. I'm good but I'm not lusted after by most of the country. I'm not rich, I'm not thin, I'm not the kind of girl who does big and important things. I clean house and bake pies. Furthermore, I do not wreck other people's relationships. I try real hard not to wreck my own. I want Liam to be happy. I don't dislike her, but I've tried and I don't know her.
Liam walked in and the two of them left. She directed him out.
I stood there in a smoking kitchen and cried. Not hard and not a lot, but enough to mark the time and the irony of Ang humiliating me.
Later that night I was doing laundry. I was feeling very alone and looked for the kitten. I found her. The phone rang as we were crawling into bed. It was Liam. He apologized for the fuss. He told me that he really saw the way things were. I thanked him and turned out the light. I changed my mind and called him right back. I got his machine at the hotel for some reason. I told him I think I understood but that he really should probably give up being friends with me. It made his new woman feel threatened.
It was weird to leave that message.

Mourning again

May 15, 2007

I've had my share of downs over the last year.

Something pretty terrific happened to me the other day. I reunited with the boy I wanted in High School. We had lunch. We talked about his hopes, his kids, my kids, our individual histories. It was amazing. If felt so good to be with someone I had known for years. I felt so completely safe and seen.


We had several moments of quiet throughout our lunch. He was the first person I learned to be quiet with. I felt nostalgia and peace.

When I went thru my divorce I vowed that he would be the next man I married. I knew that I loved him in a way that went beyond possession but was made up of passion. I was young. I got back together with my baby's daddy. (I've always wanted to say that.) Then I saw him, Mr. Dream Guy again for the last time. I'd committed to the man that would cost me so much. So I let go of the fantasy of marrying the first and until recently, the best man I had met.

I had a baby. I heard through the grapevine that he had gotten a girl pregnant and they had married. He didn't talk much about her during our lunch. I imagine her to be beautiful and kind and harrassed and tired. I realized I imagine her to be like I think I would be, if I had married him.

They've been married 12 years now. I project so much still. I imagine him loving her, even if he doesn't talk about it. I imagine the building of a life together and raising 4 kids in difficult circumstances. I imagine her frustration at his inability or desire to communicate. I think she must have had some extremely lonely years. I think of how much they have to be proud of, how they've held together. I wish I had been her. Not really of course, but in a deep and private way I wish he had chosen me. I am also really glad he didn't.

I think its a very momentous thing to grow up, even just a little and just for a moment. I knew when I was having lunch with him that he was still the man that would kill anyone who hurt me. At least in his heart, if it wasn't practical in real life. I could see how time had made him into a better man than he was boy. I saw the sadness that said he lived an honest life. I saw the love for his children and the pride in his work, his hope for the future.

I liked that he is almost certainly the boy he was when we were 15 together. He still thinks for himself, he compromises when necessary. He has grown wiser and maybe more optimistic. He has an idea of what is important. I love that it mirrors mine. I love that after 15 years of not seeing each other, we still think along similar paths. They aren't the same paths that they were 15 years ago, but they have changed and grown as if we had stayed in touch and influenced each other. It seems like a miracle to find someone like that. Someone I understand that understands me without explanation.

I am convinced that it is useless to mourn what you can't have. I haven't been successful at suppressing it however. Finding an old friend, and I guess that is what we really are and always have been, has been a better experience than I thought possible. Its taught me that time and distance don't change the way you feel about people. It taught me that patience and a willingness to live an authentic life is more important than money in the bank. But I knew all that stuff already.

Kindness

Sometimes kindness happens randomly. It comes from out of the blue like a shooting star. It is unpredictable and appreciated. I adore that kindness. Its the reason that people have faith in religion and other forms of magic.

The kindness that I like least, however, is institutionalized kindness.

Its not as beautiful because it is the mundane benign state that we rely on to live in society. Its not the stuff of miracles, and to say its institutionalized is slightly misleading. Its not kindness on command, rather its kindness that is educated. It is taught from mothers to children, mostly, I think. I've not really had much experience of men teaching children. It comes from the "play nice" of the playground and is enforced by the scary and grandmotherly women who teach third grade. After that it lives on like a vestigial tail or appendix. It is something that we all have but rarely use.

Kindness has been replaced by manipulation. Or maybe by sex appeal. Or maybe by both and something else entirely. At any rate the kindness taught to us by our mothers is dead by the time we hit our thirties. (Is it possible that the juiciness I've always attributed to women in their forties is just that with kids raised, they finally have time to just enjoy people? Its something that requires more data.) The acts that used to gain praise are now greeted with suspicion. Is this nice person trying to work me? Fuck me? Sell me something?

Unfortunately, nice sells.

I try to avoid nice people. Its too tiring to keep my guard up, so I don't. I tend to believe and believe in people. Its just easier to stay away from the potential emotional trainwreck of feeling betrayed. Usually and I mean ALMOST 100% of the time, he/she was trying to work me, fuck me, sell me something. The times they weren't, the person thought I was someone else. The only variable is the amount of time it takes them to come to the truth of what they want/sell. Thats where its easy to get screwed.

A lot of people aren't clear on their own motives. They think, well, who knows what the hell they think. What I know is that the kindness is an entre to my soul. Its a baited hook. Its an invitation to interaction and misery.

Some people are worth the interaction and misery. But oddly, they are never the kind people. They may be polite, but most often they are the people who really don't care about being nice or kind. They are the ones that are just genuine. They are trying because they don't fit the standard definition of ideal society.

Consequently, the kindness that they express is often the miraculous type. I have thoughts on this but I've lost my thread. I'll come back to it later.

Sept. 19, 2005 Real date

Why I Don't Believe in God
by Jamie

Why don't I believe in god? Because if I believed in god I might be inclined to believe in other spookier things. Those things would be ghosts, demons, other bad things and step mothers.
Here I sit, drinking scotch and reliving the exorcism of emily rose. I'm very glad I saw this movie. I love Laura Linney. Or who ever she is.
But it does have a down side. I'm slightly (read extremely) ocd re:superstition and religious mania. I expect that I'm kicking the habit even as I write this because I'm cool like that. Generally I stay far away from things that trigger the anxiety that causes the hours of prayer, thinking and ritual that are the problem. But not big brave jamie, not tonight.
So saw a freaky movie where people choose to believe that demons torture and innocent girl as proof that god exists. Thats the good news and it is purportionally true to the amount of suffering and pain one martyr is willing to endure to prove it. God, via VM offers the girl release from suffering or to continue to suffer to show others the way to god. She, like Christ goes for the suffering. Bad things happening show people the need for god. She chose to sacrifice herself so others would believe. Then you get people like me. Bitches who think she should have called a fucking truce with god. Told him to get his shit together and call detente with evil.
I wouldn't make a very good martyr. I wouldn't want anyone to win. Let people think for themselves. Sacrifice is blood given to save someone-not influence their beliefs. Risk killing myself by pushing someone out of traffic, sure. Die in horrible pain because evil incarnate can take over my body? Not so much.
Dying is easy-I think. I'll find out because my application to work with hospice came in the mail today. The process of dying seems very hard, mostly because people need meaning. We, most of us, are scared shitless of uncertainty. The emptiness of death is one big river of it. We allow people pretty lies most of their lives and that doesn't end when we need them the most. I expect I'll have some really great ones keeping me going by then. I'm not going to give them up on my death bed-I guarantee it.
So god=love and good
love and good suggest hate and bad
hate and bad=evil therefore indirectly god is the root cause of all evil. God needs something to push against. Maybe people create evil, but as i learned in my college philosophy class, people also create god. Religion isn't so much a way to promote good as to keep evil in check. That's not just the Baptists talking, either.
I want something to believe. I really do. I want something magical and personal. I want to be noticed and important. But as a friend says "If everything is special, nothing is special." And as I learned in some bible study or another, Lucifer was the favored son of god until the big hoha and he got kicked out of heaven. I won't believe for a minute that god both loves us and hates us enough to kick us out on our own even if we are devils. Best I'm willing to admit is that he's pretty overworked and sort of indifferent. We all kind of look alike, he provides pretty well and spend Sundays with us if we're willing to go to church. Otherwise I take comfort that we're mostly all alone. We mostly matter to each other. Hooray, some of us are willing to die to show that god loves us or that George Bush is right about Iraq. Others (some the same people, mind you) are willing to show the we love each other by caring, giving, helping taking care of ourselves, our families and strangers. I'd rather have some generous millionaire taking care of me than some ascetic saint.
I'm pretty sure that this whole entry is entirely blasphemous. I apologize to god and whomever else might care to read this. If nothing else, it should stand as proof to any demons that I'm already going to hell. You don't need to drop by my house and possess me. Stick a fork in me boys. I'm done.

Sept. 8, 2005

Hooray! I finally get a quiet moment and access to the computer. My youngest is a budding Faulkner. She gets up early to read and write fanfic.

Now I can't think of anything to write.

April 5, 2005

"A ring," I said, "would be the answer to the problem."

So... what kind of ring am I looking for? How many levels are there to the question? That's not even getting into the implied cultural values that come with a ring. Do I want a ring from Liam? Of course. Just any ring? No.

So... what kind of ring will this be? The one I picked up earlier today at the local Wal-Mart is purely functional. Its a wedding/weeding band. Its my hope that it puts a kink in the chain of the local horndogs. Its plain and exactly what I always dreamed I'd have-sans the dreamboat man to give it to me. It looks at home on my left hand ring finger already.

So... mission accomplished.
Except that I really do want a real ring from Liam someday. One with a diamond or some other shiny bit of rock. I want one the one that he picks out. I like certain styles better than others. Mostly the thing I want is that when and if it comes my way, its because he gives it freely and without restriction. The style of the ring is nothing compared to the style of the "thing." What that ring will mean is the tangible link-the evidence-of our time together a time not wasted but savored. It is that the bonds that brought and kept us together are there even when apart.

That ring will be a keeper. Nothing will make me take off that ring. Ever.

This ring is purely functional. It will cut down on needless hook-up action.

That ring will go beyond function. I'm not exactly sure what it will do. But I bet it will be a lot.