Talking to myself

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Nov 9th, 2010
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So there’s a thread going around the blogger world concerning what you would say to your 16 year old self. Figuring I would rise to the occasion, I’ve decided to write a letter to the 16 year old me. If nothing else, it will be an exercise in LESSONS LEARNED. And if I drag a few skeletons out of the closet and expose them for the assholes that they are, then all the better.

Dear Teenage Me,

Yes, this is weird. You probably have never received a letter from yourself before, but try and pay attention. I know you may find it shocking that you even have any brain cells left at the ancient age of *cough* forty-six *cough* but there are at least a hundred or so still functioning to impart some wisdom on your skinny ass.

Listen up, kiddo. I’ve managed to keep your body alive for another 30 years and even managed to beat some sense into that hormone-addled brain of yours. It wasn’t easy, but the main thing I need to tell you is that you will be ok. I promise.

Now that the big news is out of the way, here’s a few pointers to make your life a little easier to navigate the next few years.

I know that high school sucks, but it pretty much sucks for everybody, so you’re in good commpany. The only people that believe that high school doesn’t suck are those three or four people that never grow beyond it. There will be good days and bad ones, but that’s pretty much the rule of the rest of your life. It ain’t all cruising in cars and hot dates. But again, you will be ok.

Embrace your inner dorkiness. I know it’s hard to be different in high school, but one day soon, your originality will be something you are proud of. Plus you will never have to drive yourself bat-shit crazy again trying to find the exact same kind of tennis shoes that everybody else is wearing.

Keep your copy of the Thoureau book that your English teacher made you read. Otherwise you will have to spend some serious Ramen-noodle starving college student money for another one. (Which you will love and still have today, btw)

Stop perming your hair. Seriously. If Eddie Murphy can’t pull off a Jeri-Curl look, neither can a white girl from the Bible belt of the Midwest. You will not achieve a tousled, carefree, “I just came from the beach” look for many years. Stop it.

Look down. See those legs? They are fabulous. See those abs? Get a good look now and ingrain it in your memory. Look behind you. That is an ass to die for. Trust me. Take care of those, instead of taking them for granted. Good genes will only carry you so far. The rest takes hard work.

Let’s talk about your family. Ease up on your mom. She’s in a bad position and you’re not making it any easier. And about your dad? You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut. And when not to. Alcoholism affects more of your friends than you know and hiding behind lies and denying anything is wrong is denying you of support that you might have found. It will take years, but you can make peace with all of this.

Speak up more. You have things to say and haven’t yet found the courage to say them. I promise that if you let your voice be heard, good thing will happen.

Stand by your friends. Hug ’em, love up on ’em, tell them that they are the greatest. Because thirty years later, they are still there and wonderful and irreplaceable.

Now, let’s talk about college. You new-found freedom is not a license to lose your damned mind. Have fun, try new things, experience life, but for God’s sake stop running around acting like you only have a week to live. Do not drink Cold Duck in the shower every morning before class. Do not blow a week’s worth of grocery money on lingerie. Don’t sign up for classes that begin at 8:00 in the morning. You are not a morning person, and never will be. And go ahead and have that fling with the guy named Jack. He will teach you how to truly enjoy sex. And when you see him? Tell him I said thank you.

P.S. Call your Grandma, she misses you.

I iz not dead.

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Oct 28th, 2010
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Holy shitballs, I haven’t typed anything in like forevah! My sincerest apologies to all my fans (both of them) and the unwashed masses that have been trying so hard to find me. You can take a bath now, I’m back.

Somehow all the planets got unaligned, and my chi got way messed up. I managed to make it through the days and the nights, but not without sacrificing time from some of the things I would rather be doing. Like writing here. Or tweezing my eyebrows. So now, other than looking like Brooke Shields circa 1985, I have straightened my ass up and gotten back to what I WANT to do, rather than what I HAVE to to do.

I have kept a handy lists of things that I plan on writing about while I was busy doing other things. It’s a list compromised of things like “the house is trying to kill me” and “has my ass always been shaped like this?”, along with such chilling commentary as “how hard would I punch each one of my employees on a scale of 1-10”. I know, real cliff-hangers, eh?

Give me a day or so to catch me breath and I will be back to tell you all about how my cat is and asshole and why you should never give birth to babies with big heads.

**Side note: I have just mailed out some disposable cameras to friends with instructions to take one picture and mail it to another friend. Last frame sends it back to me. Stay tuned to see me get kicked out of WalMart for trying to develop pictures that are sure to be NOT PG-rated.

hello…remember me?

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Sep 20th, 2010
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Yes, I know I been gone for like eleventy-billion years, but there has been so much life in my days lately. I’m still not sure who scheduled all this psychosis filled activity, but as soon as it slows down and my meds kick in, I’ll be back to tell you all tales of wonder and merriment. Or naked bikers and camping failures. Your choice.

For Her. And Him. And Her.

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Aug 1st, 2010
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Three deaths. In two weeks. All under the age of fifty. All people I know.

I’m taking stock today of my life and the lives of those around me. Now I could make snarky comments about burning both ends of candles and lifestyles of bacon grease and Budweiser, but now is not the time. Now is the time to assess my own life and the mistakes I make. And to make decisions regarding how I wish to live and not live my life.

I am not going to get into final wishes and living wills on this blog. I won’t discuss hows, wheres or what colors of funeral choices. I don’t want to talk about my death. I want to talk about my life.

I believe that I have laughed more than I have cried and for that I am truly grateful. Tears have been shed, some joyous, some sorrowful. But each tear I have shed has come from a certain knowledge or memory that cannot be discounted.

I have held family and friends in my heart. They have brought me comfort and taught me gratitude that may not have come my way otherwise.

I have seen beauty and innocence and amazing sights with my eyes and felt these things go straight to my heart.

I have touched the softest baby’s cheek and the weathered bark of trees from another century. I’ve been burned by fire and frozen by snow and reveled in the changes around me.

I’ve heard whispered words of love and angry words meant to hurt. I’ve learned to look beyond the words to find the meaning and the intent, and to deflect that which is not useful.

What does this all mean? It means that my life is good. Better than I realized. Too good to be taken for granted. It’s time for this chickie to straighten up and fly right. Because there’s still meaning and purpose that I haven’t yet discovered. There’s still more of me to find. And I need to be here for that to happen.

Hot for Teacher

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Jul 8th, 2010
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Day 4: Washington, DC
Temperature: 102
Likelihood of heat-induced brain trauma: 75%
Likelihood of me fanning my T-shirt so vigorously that I inadvertantly flash a senator’s aide during his lunch: 90%

I’m feeling not funny today, so this post is likely to be full of suckage. But whatev. I’m committed to finishing this thing. I jotted down a few notes yesterday, so the chances of this being mildly coherent are up slightly. So at least there’s that.

So, where was I? Oh yeah, Capitol Building. We parked there and died. Not really, but now that we were no longer moving, the air seemed stifling. (Gah, I need spellcheck. Is that right? Stifling? Doesn’t seem right.) Looking around the Mall, we personafied typical tourists, all gape-mouthed and whatnot. As we stumbled towards the big fancy buildings, this approached us.

This is Dave. Everybody say hi, Dave! Dave is a high school science teacher and may have saved our lives. He kindly offered to pedal our sweaty asses around the Mall for an undetermined amount of money. Dave drives a Pedi-cab when he’s not teaching science to adolescents and works for tips. Since we have cash and looming heat-strokes, we take him up on his offer.

I’m quite sure that Dave is the hot teacher at his high school and all the girls giggle whenever he talks about positive ion attraction and big bang theories. He is a fountain of information and told us more about the area and buildings than we could have gotten from any tourist-y booklets. Since he knew we were in town for only a few hours, he filled us in on which places were best and which would not be worth our time.

I have lots of pictures like this. I didn’t want to lean too far out of my seat and take a chance on swaying the Pedi-cab rickshaw thingy, thus causing Dave to get irritated and throw me out, leaving me to die along the street.

After pedaling 2/3’s of the way around, we disembarked, paid the cute teacher and started to head into the first of many Smithsonian biuldings. This is when we overheard Dave the Cute Teacher negotiating with his next client. He offered to take the couple HALF the distance we had just ridden, for well OVER the price we had just paid. Clearly, we are cheap and he is re-thinking the whole “working for tips” thing. But in our defense, he told us to just pay whatever we thought was fair. Meh. I hate being cheap. I also hate being guilted into paying more. FAK!

We loaded up our guilt and plowed into the first building, surrounded by middle schoolers on field trips and Griswold family vacationers. First up, the Air and Space Building.

Then the Museum of Natural History


I think this one looks sneaky. I suspect that dinosaurs were assholes like that.

And that’s when it happened. You know how you can go somewhere, somewhere far away, somewhere no one ever goes and then you see someone you know? Well there he was. My Ex. The Milkdud himself.

Hi, Asshat.

After that, it was time to change buildings and hope The Milkdud wouldn’t find us. The Museum of American History. (My apologies for the poor quality of pics, it’s really dark in there and my camera is ashamed of the fact that it is smarter than me.)

You can almost smell the napalm and weed.

I have oodles more pictures, but I’m afraid this is turning into a slideshow at Aunt Liz’s house of their trip to Bumfuckville while eating crappy appetizers and inhaling Uncle Raymond’s second-hand cigar smoke and beer farts.

A few more buildings later, as our blood reached the temperature of lava, we headed back to Chesapeake Bay and comfy beds and air conditioning.

Stop back by tomorrow, there will be bears, hikers and funeral processions. Not neccesarily in that order.

Bye Dave! You’ll always be my Capitol Crush!

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