Vitriol

So, I am driving around and listening to my Ipod (is this legal?) and the song "Dirt Room" comes on--a Blue October song. Now if the band finds out I am downloading their music, my ass is in big huge heaps o' trouble cuz I think that technically breaches the restraining order (chillax--I am phukyn joking). Anyways, it is a new song off of the new CD called "Approaching Normal" (wow the multiple entendres of that title) and when I originally heard it, I was also watching the killer video and was so unnaturally obsessed with it that I really did not hear the lyrics, but today, thru the almost deity-like, hot pink Ipod Nano, the words blasted thru my ears like some sort of high frequency, euphonious catharsis.

So just savor this sampling of lyrics so you can catch my freakin drift here man:

I'll be standing by your back door

Reaching for the knife in my coat

I'm going to put it to your throat

You sweaty piggy, you're a bad man

What a fucking sad way to go

Your mother raised you as a joke

I should have wiped away a burden

Use the curtain in the kitchen to choke

You.

You think you own me

You should have known me

You took the future and the food off my family's plate

You'll think you'll use me

You take my money, but it's useless

When you see what I do to you

Killer, right? So upon hearing these lyrics, I begin to reflect in my scum lined emotional pond way back into yesterday when the burgeoning Exopotamus told me how he did not appreciate all the "vitriol" I have spewed about he and his lady friend on Facebook. Oh really? Now, to be perfectly fair, he said this in response to my comment that I was not at all phukyn appreciative of the lies he has told about me to his family and others. Oh, and by the way, have I spewed vitriol? Well, I don't think so since every damned word I have printed has been, um.....true.

So in keeping with the idea of expressing my angst through bitter witticisms, please indulge me the following fake letter to the blossoming ex-spouse.

Dear Dickhead,

I want you to know that I am relatively sure that you are not even good enough to breath my air. Your sidekick/butt pal/corn fed girlfriend is a freakin farm animal and I agree that the two of you may eventually need a place out in the country since her girth alone constitutes her as livestock. Can I get a moo-moo? And listen, even if she does not win a ribbon at the rodeo, I want you to know that you both have my blessing. I mean, how two people as common and desperately unattractive as you both are found each other and dared to get naked or (jesus lawd dare I say it out loud) have intercourse is in all likelihood a sign of the apocalypse. I hear the thundering of the seven horsemen...oh...wait...that was just y'all. Never mind. But can I just say "thigh master"? Anyway, I am now and ever shall be grateful for the first hand warning of the end of your world as you know it--apocalypse or no. While basking in the glow of what I believe will be your misery upon reflecting on my absence later down the road, I have now been able to look forward to each day as if it was my last. Each day that moves me further from my years in indentured servitude and designated driving is brighter and more filled with joy than the day before it. I have been able with the support of friends and Ted, to see myself for the person I really am and the value that I actually have. So in short, this is just my way of saying, "thanx man."

The moral of this rant is: There is a definite line, however thin, between forcefully ejecting the truth in an unflattering but really amusing fashion and "spewing vitriol." And if the vitriol fits, then I say 'wear it you sleazy creepy exasperating muthr phukyr."

Love me some Alice

I saw this woman on T.V., Mary Alice from Ace of Cakes, and she has a tatt of Alice in Wonderland on her upper arm. One of those cool illustrations like the original book must have had--not all Disneyfied. So anyway, besides the name relation, I got to wondering why Mary Alice had chosen this one. Then I got to thinking about Alice in Wonderland---got to thinking about what an absolutely original and freakin trippy story it is.

Alice is a hero isn't she? I mean the chick falls down a ginormous rabbit hole and all hell breaks loose, right? One minute she is reading a book and the next, she is running after a talking white rabbit and drinking some stuff that makes her small so she can traipse around in the garden she finds down there and then after that she eats a cake that says "EAT ME" and she grows way big. You know how many times I have wanted to scream "Hey, EAT ME!"? Anyway, this is pretty cool if you think about it. It takes balls to turn a near death experience into a fairly fascinating evening underground.

I also love that "rabbit" is synonymous with being afraid, cowardly and that Alice is such a bad ass, yet follows the scaredy cat into chaos for some stupid reason.

I am inspired by this having recently fallen down my own proverbial rabbit hole. Well, it is more of a mud mired pig pen. I didn't follow a clever and dapperly dressed rabbit either but more like, well, like a pig. I think I have even said "EAT ME" a couple of times. I see myself, like Alice, having followed a coward.

When the rabbit gets all bossy and tells Alice to "fetch" him his fan, he sets her up to be mocked by the forest critters and she is pelted with stones. Man, I so get that, right? You get bossed around by some asshole, but you think complying is worth the price of peace only to find out that you are being set up to be a brainwashed, isolated designated driver who thinks you are a worthless piece of crap. Run, Alice! Run!

I also love it later on when she gets fed up and goes OFF on the caterpillar telling him he is embarrassingly short--dayum the double entendre in that statement. I like that when Alice has had enough of the nonsense, she gets a little postal. She gets a huge attitude with the King and Queen of hearts and refuses to "hold her tongue" telling them they are merely a pack of cards.

Again, I admire that. Sometimes you have to call things what they are. You have to just say, "enough nonsense." You have to stop letting people yank you around and use you without giving two cents about you as a person, but only caring what it is that you can do for them. Only caring that you fill some need and that you give but never really truly wanting to give you anything in return. Nothing real. Nothing lasting. You have to believe the people in your life when they show you what they are. Embrace the ones who really love and support you and dismiss the ones who demonstrate what shallow, self-centered, cold-hearted bastards they are. For all of those people in my life I say "Off with your heads!"

Good Grief

Today I have been thinking a lot about grief, The Rolling Stones, and that book The Secret. Yeah I know, two cows driving a car, I mean WTF, right?

It all started when I noticed that most of the time I associate grief with death (duh) and so, literally tend to unite death with the image of an actual person or pet becoming deceased, I mean that is my automatic response to the concept of bereavement. Jesus, I am so fukin cheerful, huh? Anyway, I had the epiphany though that what actually happens is that we mourn the little things all of the time; grief is ongoing. This occurs so when the big things happen, we don't crater so badly. You have to let the sadness seep out a little bit at a time. You have to do stuff like watch Schindler's List or Sophie's Choice or Ishtar, or look at old pictures, or hang out with your pug (does any animal have a sadder face really?). For me lately sorrow has been a little security blanket. I have to carry it around with me so that I know it is there. I need to know it is there sort of flitting around in my guts like an anemic butterfly. I think the Stones summed it up best when the sang the following lyrics from their song Sad Day: "Someone woke me up this mornin' and I lit a cigarette. Found myself when I stopped yawnin', started getting myself dressed. Then I felt I had a dream, I remembered the things I'd seen. I could still hear the things you said with that bad dream in my head. It was a sad day."

But, why the Rolling Stones? I think only maybe one of those guys is actually dead. Well the Stones have been blasting thru every orifice in my house for about 5 freakin hours, and um, I am the kind of person that cannot take nonstop audial stimulation like that. It makes me feel panicky and nervous for one thing. I cannot keep a thought in my head. Like just now, I had something really clever to say and, oh, it is gone now. I have too many thoughts in my head already, then you got Jagger with his musical roam through hours and hours of songs--and really, who needs to hear Jumpin Jack Flash one more goddamned time? But I digress. I use my thoughts already to drown out my emotions. My heart wants to bleed, but my brain tells it to put a bandaid on that wound and shut the hell up. I cannot keep this dialog between head and ticker going with Mick yelling "It's a gas, gas, gas" mmmmkkkkaaayy?? So then I hear the song, Memory Motel and he sings: "You're just a memory of a love that used to mean so much to me. She got a mind of her own and she use it well, yeah. Mighty fine, 'cause she's one of a kind. And she use it well." I feel at once satisfied and of course sad considering my current circumstances, but all in all the line really resonates with me. Then of course Ruby Tuesday comes up in the next song or two and so I am doing OK for a bit. I had a friend in college who used say that it reminded them of me and I was always so flattered by that.

The Secret? Well you know, I started reading that book about 2 years ago when I was prepping myself for transforming my life into more of what I wanted it to be. I made all my changes happen all on my own from the inside out. You know what? Change is painful. Even positive change hurts a little. Where there is hurt, there is also grief.....and music. So now I am back full circle. Grief and unhappiness often require and inspire us to change. Change, even when positive, causes distress on some level. Most music is born of some kind of emotion, and most commonly that is sadness or hard times. So in retrospect, it all fits quite nicely together. No surprises really. The kind of disquietude that comes with metamorphosis occurs mainly because even with the best laid plans, once you start on the path of vicissitude, you cannot know for sure the outcome you will reach. This causes me to reflect on more lyrics: "You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes you just might find, you get what you need."

I know it is all going to be OK even if I have to give in to the lowest dosage of Xanax available to "take the proverbial edge off." Well yes, my edges need some Xanax. Or sandpaper.

"Mother needs something today to calm her down, and though she's not really ill, there's a little yellow pill. She goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper, and it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day."

Dog Stalker

I know the noun "stalker" has come to mean something, I dunno....negative? But really if you look at the dictionary definition of the root word, stalk (hey I sort of made a plant pun there with root and stalk), well it is a downright appealing word. I will not bore you with the word by word definition, but it includes the following: stealthily, haughty, deliberate, persistent, and stiff--stiff can be good, right? Anyways, "stalk" and "stalker" are even more appealing when you are able to ignore the other descriptives like: menacing, sinister, unlawful, and my personal favorite, derangement.

And speaking of "stalk" and "stalker," I think this would be a great name for a movie, kinda like Dumb and Dumber.

Stalking however it may come into ones life can be freaking cute as hell (http://www.blueq.com/shop/114-catId.117440644_114-productId.0.html) when the persistent and deranged perpetrator is a pug. Seriously. This is my favorite thing about my dog, Iris Iona Bond. I love this animal more than my own hair color. More than my kickass Adidas Bounce black and hot pink cross trainers. More than chocolate chips stuck on a spoonful of peanut butter. OK, maybe not, but you get the idea. I soon learned that after her first vet visit, when Dr. Cruzen explained that pugs are "Velcro dogs," that he was trying to warn me. "Velcro dog" is vetspeak for "psycho killer" (quest que cest.)

Dr Cruzen should have his own show, I swear to gawd. He is like the Mr. Rogers of vets. Sits on the floor and kisses the animals on the mouth and baby talks to them while interspersing copious verbal notes to his young teenage assistants who don't even know what shorthand is but can write in text language like "fixt anl glndz b4 cutg clwz," but I digress.

So for the first, maybe....year and a half I'd say, I thought it was cute when Iris would follow me around like a shadow but more like a shadow with lots of little teeth that are clamped to your pant leg and as you walk forcing you to slightly drag them around. I delighted in her little trick of climbing on my back to hold me down while scratching at the back of my head, growling slightly if I moved. Or breathed too deeply. Or had a thought that was too loud. I know...C-R-E-E-P-Y.

Then one day I was sitting, chillaxin, reading, and looked down to glance upon the warm, fat ball of canine at my feet only to find that she was gazing back up at me, transfixed on my face, glaring into my eyes, nostrils flaring slightly as she heaved quietly. I knew in that moment, that she was saying "I love you, but if I had opposable thumbs, I'd kill you. I'd kill you, cut you up and put you in the deep freeze." It was very puts-the-lotion-on-its-skin. It was only then that I could really see how one could come to enjoy having a stalker. I became aware in an instant that even though they pretend not to, celebrities kind of like it when strangers dig thru their garbage and masturbate in their bushes--I mean who wouldn't?

Oh, I need to make a clarification, or suffer the consequences, but when I referred to my pug as "fat" above, I really mean "large boned", "with winter coat", and "retaining water".

Trashy is as Trashy Does

Saturday is T-Day. Approximately 60 hours and counting. I am kind of ascared, but no way am I telling anyone cuz I am supposed to be so freakin tough. I enjoy very much being both tough and extremely girly. It is a skill you know? You look all sort of petite and like you can't run fast cuz you got on 4 inch wedges and your hair costs more than most people's house payment, but at the same time you know you can also kick a man's ass fair and square without ever stooping to coming near the bawlsaq.

So I decide that a tatt will be sort of tough and will represent me well. I am all about gettin the tatt, right? Then I start to waiver, start to doubt my decision. I decide I need to talk about it, hear myself think out loud--see if I am REALLY ready. Then I hear the words,

"You know, I am not at all interested in that, OK? I do not want to hear you talk about that. It is your body. You do what you want. I mean, if you want spinning hubcaps for your van, then so be it, it is your van go ahead, but I do not want to hear about it." (Imagine right here that sudden sound of music playing and then the record player needle zipping off to one side, a brief scratching noise then silence).

"What?" I say.

The response, "You know how I feel about that" (head turns away for dramatic effect).

Being not completely freaking stupid, I completely am cognizant of what the person really thinks about my potential tattoo but cannot stop myself from forming the words, "No, actually, I don't." Those words plod out of my mouth in slo-mo like it must seem for those unfortunate druggies who smoke mandrax out of bongs or something.

"Well," the person replies "it is trashy, don't ya think?"

Well butter my ass and call me a biscuit. Wow, that NEVER occurred to me (sarcasm) let me rethink my choice and THANX soooooooooooooo much for that incredible insight. Even thinking this I replied, "Hmmm...O.K."

Listen anything can be trashy. I hate to sound all Forest Gump (kick ass sound track BTW) but trashy is as trashy does. I could install a pole in my living room, stick cucumbers slices across the unspeakable parts of my upper womanliness, throw on a thong and 8 inch patent leather stilettos and spin endlessly while the neighbors tossed dollars at me, and still, I would not be trashy, mmmmmkkkkaaayyyy????? Let me tell you what "trashy" is. Trashy is throwing a person you are supposed to love under the bus. Trashy is abandoning a person in body and spirit when they need you most. Trashy is begrudging a person an enviable life that they have damned well earned because you have issues that you cannot keep contained.

I could go on, but I choose not to. I could forgo the tatt, but I choose not to. My tatt has a lot of symbolic meaning to me which I guess is why this is such a bailiwick. My idea was to get a lizard because they can shed their skin, rejuvenate a lost tail, change colors to adapt to their environment, are widely misunderstood and under appreciated, require a warm climate, but can survive the coldest winter only to reemerge victorious at the thaw. Although silent, they are expressive and in great numbers, can eradicate most garden pests. I think of the lizard as a symbol of metamorphosis, of my metamorphosis.

So if there was any glimmer of doubt that I was going to show up at Elektra Art in Ingleside this Saturday morning with 12 of my dearest friends to celebrate my inner and outer changes I can tell you that hesitancy peeled away when I heard "trashy."

Scavenger Hunt

Last night a friend was talking about the music she wanted at her funeral, so we got to chatting about funeral requests.

The first thing that came to mind for me was a scavenger hunt. I like to create elaborate scavenger hunts for every possible occasion. I have been doing it for years. Rhyming clues that are themed with the party. I like to arrange it all in various ways. My fave is to hide the clues in balloons, then hide the balloons too. The hunters have to pop the balloon to get the clue--good for lots of screaming and excitement.

Anyways, so I am thinking why I have such a penchant for scavenger hunts. I am thinking this may have to do with the fact that because I am lost and also that I am seeking. Maybe I am just expressing some need.

This is when it sux to be a counselor. To be overly analytical. Sux.

I am going to have to work on the theme and the prize a little. Maybe I can make a gourd in my likeness, put it in a little coffin and allow the funeral guests to search for it by uncovering little clues. I can see it now. People dressed in black, trotting around the cemetery looking for clues.

Oh, well that won't work. I am donating my body to science. Wow, well that gives me lots of new ideas....

My Moral Turpitude

I had a rather interesting and enlightening convo with my sis n law the other day. She made a good point regarding some of my blogs and accompanying pics. She stated, quite reasonably, that I put myself at risk when I ride the edge, or go over it through word choice, pics of gestures, messages that are harsh and can be taken the wrong way.

Solid advice and points all well taken.

But..and you knew there was one....I am tired of being repressed. I thought about this for hours and hours after our conversation, and here is the deal. I will have to step up and own things I say and do. I may be over the edge, my language when I am ticked is foul--ask anyone who knows me--I will make threats and warnings (but I make good on them--I will give myself that. If I threaten you, guess what? I am not joking). I am human and I would like to be genuine as well. I just cannot put on airs any longer, let people mistreat me and do nothing, express nothing. Nope, I just am not going to do it any more.

So if my words and ideas defy moral turpitude, then so be it. This stance is subjective at best and I have up until recently allowed this concept to imprison part of my spirit. I also have first amendment rights to say what ever the heck I want.

In short, if my blog offends you, then don't fucking read it.

"Well behaved women rarely make history." Laurel Thatcher Ullrich