Sing, Sing a Song

Last night I pondered what my readers think of me.  Truth is, I do not always write for the readers, I write because it is what I do, who I am.  I write for me, and throw it out into the world.

In the past my writing has caused some familial controversy; I have pissed off family members without meaning to, or even thinking about what their reaction would be.  Being a writer of my kind, I often expose other people.  There are times when I can be crass or blunt and hurt someone's feelings, again not intentionally.

I also realized that my writing makes people cry.  While I am happy that I have moved someone to tears with my words, I am also sad that I have passed on my sadness.

Writing to me is akin to the good Catholic going to the confessional. Instead of telling one person all my woes and sins, I choose to do it in a public forum.

While thinking about my words from a stranger's perspective, I discovered that my life may seem bleak more often than not.  This really is not the case.

I have tried to be a pessimist, but it just does not stick.  No matter how much I grieve or feel various pains, I believe in my life and try my damndest to enjoy it.

Having said that, I would like to share some more intimate things about myself.

I am a complete spazz.  Recently I was in Atlanta staying with my brother and sister in law.  In the matter of three days I managed to break a candle; spill my soda not once or twice, but three times; back my brother's car into a tree; and, finally, while enjoying sitting outside by the fire pit, I fell to the ground as the camping chair gave way and I landed legs up  and ass down.

Hearing my sister in law laugh was awesome!  She has a great laugh that is infectious and all I could do was laugh along (which did nothing to help me get up and out of the broken chair).

I am equally a dork at home. I make jokes that only I seem to get and laugh at.  Explaining the jokes just makes it worse and makes me laugh harder.

In an effort to lose weight I have taken to running from one side of my house to the other, which has resulted in my pants falling down and me tripping over my pug (though that last may just be another part of the ongoing plot my pug has to  kill me).

I accidentally in half-sleep sprayed my lady parts with hair spray instead of the lady parts spray.

I would have said vagina, but I am thinking of my readers who may still cringe at that word.

Oh, and to those readers, get over it.  VAGINA.

The hairspray was super hold.  I was, in effect, painfully glued shut and no, I did not take the opportunity to try any new styles.

Love is awesome,  love of family, love children, love of people here and gone.  Love and laughter combined are even more amazing.

If you see me in person, you will probably see me carrying a cup of diet coke -- you should probably stay a few feet away as I am probably going to spill it at some point.

If you see me in a downward dog yoga position, please call for help because I do not do yoga and I am not doing that on purpose.

I would say I should stay away from scissors, but cutting hair is one of the tasks where I excel. I do not hesitate to say I am a fantastic hairstylist, but I wear my own hair in the same way I did in 1982.

If I try to play pool, I will hit myself and others around me with the cue, but I will never hit the actual ball.

I cannot carry a tune, but I will sing loud and proud as if I can, more often singing the wrong lyrics without a care.  Madonna should have been more clear with her lyrics, because I will forever sing, "last night I dreamt of some bagels."

There will always be sorrow and sadness, there will always be losses, and I will continue to explore my feelings on them.

I am not one dimensional, I do not fit into any one box.

I may not wish on the morning star, but I do believe one day we will all find the rainbow connection.

And yes, you may end up being a person who inspires me to write, I may out you in some form, but never more than I am willing to out myself.

Lastly, to remove hairspray from unwanted places soap and water will work just fine!

Dying to Live

"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven out of hell, a hell of heaven..." - John Milton, Paradise Lost

I have no idea if there is a heaven. I have no idea if there is a hell.

I find it  hard to imagine golden streets and a heavenly host of angels; frankly heaven can sound kind of boring.

I also find it difficult to believe there is a fiery pit and a ruler with a  spiked tail constantly punishing us.

I think we punish ourselves more than any devil could do.

I think we can find more joy than any gold street could carry.  Hold a newborn, laugh with your best friend until you can barely breathe, take a lover who knows you, watch a sunset and don't capture it with a camera, just watch it.  Feel the wind on your face, toes in the sand, a hug.  All of those things and so many more bring a heavenly feeling.

Hell is a panic attack in a public place, the loss of someone you love, the physical limitations of our bodies as we age, the mental torture we put ourselves through.

There is a special hell for people who have stay behind and watch our loved ones go. Sometimes death will be quick, other times it will drag out and we will watch the suffering not being able to do anything about it.

I have encountered a new hell.  Watching someone disappear, slowly, a little more each day.

One day she will not know me.  For now she does, but she has lost all our times together.  My best friend, the woman I aspired to be more than anyone, I am now terrified of turning into.  My Mother.

Her brain is being erased in a cruel and unknowing way.  She smiles and nods and tends to laugh to make us think she knows what is going on.  But she doesn't.

She no longer recalls our secrets, our inside jokes, the trips we took together, the times I would sit and watch her clean out her purse letting me keep all the change that fell out.  She has lost the way we related to each other.

Where is she going?  I want to know.  I want to be able to visit her there and see her again.  I want to introduce her to my love, who never met the real mom I had.

Her hair is white, her skin is porcelain as it has always been.  A stark contrast to my own.  She is already looking like she is fading away.

Is she in hell or is this hell just for all of us that have loved her?

I feel like a petulant child who wants her mommy back.  It is true.  I want her back and she is not even finished with her journey of going away.

One day she will look at me and smile because she feels that is the right response, but the truth will be that I will know the smile is fake and she does not know me anymore.

One of the most colorful women I have ever known is fading into shades of pale.

I search for the good in all this, I dig, I ponder.  I have no answers. I see no meaning.  Only cruelty.

I sat and watched the sunset tonight with my love.  We watched the sky change colors, we felt the breezes, and held hands.

Wherever my mom goes, I know that she can still look at a sunset and appreciate it.  She will forget it, but for one instant, just one, she will be there in that moment.

I will sit with her and hold her hand for as long as she will let me.

This life we each live is so often wasted.  I know I am guilty of not living, of not feeling alive, of living in the past or living with the dead.

I want to live in the moments with my mother, the small moments she has left.

Will this happen to me? Will I become what I always wanted? Just like my mother?

If so, I hope that my children come and sit and hold my hand and try to find me.

"You know I am dying to live until I am ready to die." - Johnny Lang

Are You Sure That Was Me?

Sitting in Atlanta at an Italian restaurant last night I was well reminded of why I adore my family.

Family has many aspects, but ultimately we are all connected.  This family consisted of my two brothers, their wives and my youngest daughter.

Having not grown up with sisters I do not have the memories of some of my friends.  Our fights, when we did fight, were hard core.  Often ended with me being hurt and probably tattling to our mother in some form.

We sat over bottles of wine, and food my daughter has not seen (being a true Texan that she is).  The Jersey in me came out.

Tales were told that more often than not ended with one of us saying, "Oh my God I did do that!"
It was almost a race of who did the worst thing.  My eldest brother held back, being the most reserved of the three of us, so my other brother and I took up the slack and told his stories for him.  I looked over and saw him laughing behind his antipasto.

Yeah, we were all young once, we were all kids.  We are held together by memories of old girlfriends and boyfriends, a few car crashes, a lot of parties, and general good times.  In our small town we grew up in our family was known.  I am not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but it is fact.

I looked at my brother and his grey hair and he is still the lady killer he once was.  My other brother with no grey hair and his wife are the picture of suburban living and health.

They in turn made me take a look at myself.  I was grilled on the way home why I do not, to this day, like to go out to eat.  When the reason turned out to be a bad mushroom trip from 30 years ago  my daughter piped up, "That is why you don't like to go out to eat?!"

We punish ourselves  more than anyone else will ever punish us.  Some of it remains, and lingers into our personality and just becomes part of us that we navigate.  When my brother showed light on it, I had to laugh because it does seem rather silly, but I am so used to it now, it is just part of who I am.

I love it when I find out my own children get together and go out, or stay in.  I do not have to be therm just knowing about it makes me happy.  Now I know why.

They are family.  They belong to a certain group, raised by me, and have shared experiences that I may or may not know about. And that is the way it should be.

Someday I may not recall all these memories that were tossed around last night like the buttery rolls.  I hope my youngest was listening so she can retell them.  I have the fortune of once being very close to our mother and hearing her stories that she did not want "the boys", my brothers to know.  They are old enough to handle them now, and I am old enough that I better tell them to someone before I forget.

My mom would have loved to have been there at dinner with us.  But would we have been so open and honest if she was there?  Absolutely.  That was how we were raised.  Very few secrets existed in our family, and if they did they were huge secrets worthy of being kept.

Last night I sat at the table and took it all in.  How we have all survived our adventures, and misadventures.

Last night I confessed to my daughter a few things, without a lot of choice.  Every parent must decide to let their children know more than just the parental side of them or not.  I have never really been one to abide by the strict parental role.  I love my children and want them to know me, and yes this comes with a past.

I also want my children to take some risks and create their own pasts.

One day I hope all five of my babies are sitting around a table sharing, wine, or margaritas and laughing over the shit they did when they were younger.

For now, they are younger.

For now, I get to enjoy the feeling of being with my family, my family of siblings.  It is one of the greatest feelings in the world to sit and laugh and know you are loved because of and in spite of my history.

Because with my family, we share the same history.  Only the view points change.

Pour the wine, tell the stories, embrace the family, close and extended.

You may regret some of your actions of your youth, but one day it may just end up a funny story that is part of a bond.

Oh Captain, my Captain

There are times when I have idea in my head that are bursting to make it to print.
Sometimes I ponder them, edit them, worry about reactions of my readers, and discard them before they even come to fruition.

I thought of this as a kind of abortion, until I realized it is more of a suicide.  I kill characters that reside in my head either because they no longer served a function, or to make room for new ones.

This line of thought lead me to want to talk about the actual act of suicide.  You can imagine the self editing, and multiple abortions of that idea.

It is time now, with humility that I want to talk about it.

Maybe because I am watching a movie with a famous actor who killed himself not too long ago.  I read people's posts of heartache, disbelief, and many who called him a coward.

I kept my mouth shut, at least in the public forum.

If you have read this far then here is my disclaimer: These opinions are mine.  I do not expect to change anyone's views or beliefs, I merely have to get these thoughts out there so that I might forget about it for a while.

The actor is best when he/she is so convincing you can not see them any other way than you do at the very moment you are watching them.  If they convince you something is funny and you laugh, then the actor has done his job.

When this actor decided his time here was done, I was very affected.  I was going through a dark night of the soul and was not strong in thought or faith of ever escaping it.  He made me feel weak.  Yes weak.

He had the strength to decide it was time to end his pain, whatever that pain may have been.  I don't know.  I was not friends with him, never met him, never would.

But I know he was in pain.

A pain I swear I could wish no one would ever feel.  A pain so terrible that some people take razor blades and make small cuts to feel something other than what is bouncing around in their heads.

St. John of the Cross writes of his Dark night of the soul.  A carrying of spirit from this realm to (what he believed) the place with God.

People write poetry, songs, symphonies, plays, and a plethora of books on depression, or alcoholism, or just unhappiness.

For every person who takes a risk to put their heart out in the public, I am inspired.  I grow strength from people,  perfect strangers.

But this actor made me feel weak.  He did the one thing that no matter how low I have been I know I could not do.  Instead I reached out for someone.  I cried, I slept, I cried.  My days followed like this for almost six months.

I cried when I woke up simply because I did wake up.

I rarely showered, and even more rarely did I leave the house.  I stayed in my nest with my love taking care of me and letting me feel the horrible feelings I had.  She wished she could take them from me.

She couldn't.  I was the one who had to take the first steps.  I had done it before and chose to do it again.  I chose life.

The actor chose death.  I respect him for that. Yes he will be missed and loved, but he was in no way a coward.  We will all be missed and loved one day, that is what matters more.

I am not saying all people who are depressed, bullied, sick, or sick of being sick should choose to end their life.  No.  Exhaust everything you can, call on every person.  You will pleasantly surprised at who will come to your aid and sadly disappointed at those who you thought would and didn't.

Try.  Try everything you can think of first.

Do I know if this actor tried everything he could think of?  Obviously not.  No one does.  But he knew when it was too much.  I can not call that being a coward.  It was probably the most desperate and scary and ultimately brave thing he could do for himself and those he loved.


I leave you with St. John of the Cross:

"I remained, lost in oblivion;
My face I reclined on the Beloved.
All ceased and I abandoned myself,
Leaving my cares forgotten among the
lilies."

Come on People Now Love one Another

Yesterday my partner was on her way home from work, taking her usual route which leads directly through the most crime ridden area of Austin.  She was driving and saw a man lying on the sidewalk, as she passed the man feebly reached one arm up, as if to call for help in the only way he could.

Without hesitation my partner turned around and parked next to the man, leaned over and said, "Hey buddy, you okay?"  The man's reply was mostly incoherent but he did mention something about smoking something.

"I will get you help"

She called 911 and waited with him, reassuring him, until the ambulance arrived.

Then she came home.

My son and his girlfriend once helped a man who appeared to be on drugs struggling to get on a motorcycle.  They went over and tried to help him, stop him from riding and find out what was going on.  As it turned out my son and his girlfriend deduced he was a diabetic, and being right near a bakery went in and got him some cookies and orange juice.  Within minutes the previous slurring man was perfectly normal and thanked the kids.  They said it was no problem, anyone would have done the same.

That is the problem, not everyone does the same.

My partner is looking for meaning in what happened with her and the man lying in the street.  She seems blind to the fact that SHE was the one who brought meaning to the incident.  No one else stopped.  It is a busy road and every other person turned a blind eye, didn't see, or did not want to stop in such a neighborhood for what appeared to be just another crack head..

She confessed that she wants to change the world, but can not see that she already did.  Maybe another car passing by took stock of their own life and vowed to stop to help his fellow man.  Maybe a woman driving her children pointed out what was happening and taught her children it is a good thing to stop and help the strangers who need it.

Changing the world is not running for office, or standing on a pulpit every Sunday. Changing the world is taking the lessons you have learned out into your family and community.  It is actions, not words.

I am no more changing the world by writing this, I was not the one who stopped to help.  I am only pointing out the meaning of it.

She did not talk to me about her feelings of this event until today.  Until with some irony, we left the voting polls having cast our ballots.  I was feeling fairly self righteous about voting, even if it is my civic duty.

What difference did I make by pressing buttons?  Does that equal up to helping one man get help?

Somehow I don't think so.

I have asked myself how I have changed the world and I came to the conclusion that I am a listener, I take people's stories as they seem to always want to tell me.  I am one of those people that can not run into a store for a quick diet coke.  I almost always come out with a story, a piece of someones life that they wanted to tell, and wanted me to hear.

My partner heard the only story she needed to.  Help.  And she did.

 You do not need a cape or a weapon, you just need a heart and possibly a cell phone to change the world.

Whatever Will Be Will Be

I am sitting here watching my cursor blink at me and I want to curse right back at it.  I know what  issue I want to address, and I am finding it so difficult to actually do it.

I very recently watched a documentary that smacked me in the face in so many ways, I need an Advil or two.

This documentary focused primarily on the objectification of women.  I am fully aware this is not a new topic, and my readers may sigh and think, "Heard all this before."

By now my readers know I have five children.  Four girls and one boy.  What you do not know is that when I found out I had a boy (Upon his delivery and contrary to what the ultrasound told us), I was terrified.

I was 25 and believed men were the root of all evil.  I was so hyper focused on raising my son to appreciate and value women, that I think I ignored teaching my daughters the same lesson. I did not care when at age two my son wanted to wear a tutu of his sisters.  I applaud even today the way he shows respect to his amazing girlfriend.  They are equals.

But did I teach this to my daughters?

No.

My daughters were raised to be the free little spirits they were, but in retrospect I did encourage the stereotyped female role.  Whose tutu did my son borrow?  His sisters.  I bought matching dresses for them, every Disney Princess, and American Doll that looked like them.

On their own they discovered where they wanted to fall among the title of being a woman.  I have one daughter who never liked the girly things, I have one who never knew how to put on makeup, I have one who loves makeup, and one who obsesses over fashion.

I have always had body issues with being too heavy, and in the last ten years I overcompensate for my weight by wearing a lot of dresses and skirts.  Yet I have tattoos on my arms of skeletons and daggers.  I look back to my "thin" days and how I dressed.  Overalls, shorts I bought in the men's section so they could hang on my hips, and always tank tops.  I still wear tank tops but that could be a climate dictation.

What was my chosen career?  Fashion.  I can not help now but to feel as if I am part of the problem.

"If you wear this shade it will really make your eyes pop"  because lord knows if our eyes are not as big and round as a Disney Princess no one will think we are pretty.

I have worked fashion show after fashion show, more photo shoots than I can count.  I have watched male photographers make models pose in ridiculous ways that they think is sexy.

Yet, I myself only wear makeup if I am working.  I usually apply it on my way to work at each red light.  I can not wait to get home and take it off.

I am captivated by makeup, I retail it, I collect it, but I do not use it on me.  My tiny personal makeup bag has a few things and I always wear the same things.

As I get older I am just now learning to love my body.  This is not easy on a Grand Canyon scale.  In youth I loved my breasts, small, always a B cup and as perky as a Grande Cup of Pumpkin spiced latte.  Of late my breasts have reached National Geographic proportion.  Still, I wont wear a bra on most days, and it comes off before the makeup does.

I do not abide by the rules of my profession.  Yes I want to look pretty, yes I miss the days of turning heads of both males and females, but I lump that with youth.  I will never be that again. I am coming to terms with what being a woman really means, while simultaneously guilty of supporting the gender bias.

I love making people look good.  I love when they feel their hair after I have cut it or styled it and they smile with happiness.  I love that I can take a 15 year old girl look sexy and vulnerable at the same time.

I sit here and reflect on that last sentence and feel sick about it.

Is it wrong to want to feel hot, sexy, and desirable?

Is it wrong that I have spent my professional life disseminating this myth that if you feel you look good on the outside it will reflect how you feel on the inside?

Have I neglected my daughters by focusing so much on my son?

Is it too late for them to learn?

I am faced now with a question I do not know how to answer, how do I go about my career in a balanced way?

I have not been working all that much in the last year, a photo shoot here or there, a wedding or two, and maybe a few zombies.  Even some of my zombies required that they still appear sexy.  Not a problem, I can do that.

I know women who are authors, judges, athletes, doctors, actors,  professors.  At some point these women have ended up in my chair asking for help.  Help to tame curls, what makeup is best, should they color their hair or let it go grey.  All of them not knowing they are all asking the same thing of me.

To make them look better then they perceive themselves.

If I could go back over my career I might change a few things, I might not.  I do know I would change what I said and how I encouraged my daughters.

I know now that if I could go back in time to a point where I sang "Hush Little Baby" I would change it to Que Sera Sera.

Daughters: Don't hush, cry if you need to, scream if you feel it, take a stand, be you, with or without a bra or makeup.  Always know there is at least one person on this earth who loves you just the way you are, it may have taken me 46 years to say it, but you are perfect, and you are loved.

Have You Heard…?

I broke my golden rule of summer and looked at the news.  Normally I stay away from it and instead watch Tremors two times in a row.  Kevin Bacon, tight jeans, cowboy boots, always seems like a good idea to me.

Alas, I awoke early and did not turn on the TV, I did not want to wake Meredith.  I am not in a book reading mood, as I am in the middle of three at the moment and could not pick one without feeling I am hurting the other two book's feelings.  Yes I anthropamorphize my literature.

I picked up my tablet and immediately went to the news folder.  Here is what I learned:

The Juggalos are a misunderstood group.  Go ahead and google it, I had to.

Cam girls are asked to do some crazy ass shit, but they get paid for it.

Another idiot tried getting high trying to smoke his wife's ashes.

People apparently care what James Franco thinks about.

part two, people also care about what Justin Bieber and whats his face are fighting about.

NYPD killed another man, and I will see the Law and Order SVU version of it sometime in September.

A new site where teens can make each other even more miserable and insecure than they already are.  Owner of site doesn't give a shit.

George Bush doesn't know much about his own father, which will not stop him from hiring a ghost writer to write a tell all.

Now, on to the more disturbing news, which on every site comes after the aforementioned "news"

No rest in the middle east

Ebola outbreak at an all time high and one infected woman is being flown to Atlanta for a treatment that does not exist.  This I became fixated on.

Yes I am more likely to set my ex on fire (kidding) than I am to get ebola, that does not matter to a person who takes their book's feelings into consideration.  I now go off the beaten path of news and begin to research all I can about ebola.

After I have thoroughly convinced myself that I have ebola and will surely be dead in a matter of minutes I take a deep breath, a xanax, and go back to the lighter side of news.

Cosmopolitan thinks Lesbians have sex like a bizarre cirque de solei act.  We don't.

According to a quiz I am the iceberg in the movie Titanic.

Parental Awards Go To: the couple that hired a surrogate, who had twins, only take the healthy one and leave the one with downs syndrome in another country.
The mom who lit her husband on fire for molesting her daughter.
The mom teaching her three year old how to twerk.
The dad who left his children in the car while he went to work.
And the winner goes to an 80 year old woman who refuses to sell her house for a new development , sits on front porch with a shot gun, hey she is a Texan, what did they think would happen?

Today I will not think about ebola, I will not think about wars, I will not think about how a lake can mysteriously appear in the middle of the desert, nor will I send the link to that article to my mother in law in Arizona.

As I look up from where I am sitting at the head of my dining room table I see books instead of place mats.  501 French Verbs, some Dean Koontz book, an the Survival Guide to the Paranormal.

I am fairly certain I hear Kevin Bacon calling me.

As a nod to the news I wont be reading, and to Walter,"And that's the way it is."