After spending several hours playing Spanish homework catch up, I am slightly mentally depleted. Here is an unofficial poll:
Should you write on your blog for the sake of posting, even if your brain equals mashed bananas?
Here are your answer options:
1. Yes
2. No
Discuss...
Wednesday, October 31
Tuesday, October 23
A lifelong puzzlement, solved!
I was just looking back over some photos from my Southeast Asian adventure, rereading the fabulous, if few, posts I wrote in the midst of it all, and becoming increasingly depressed. I've decided to skip class today, in lieu of commiserating with myself over the suckitude of my life.
Do not be alarmed. This happens with some frequency.
I don't really want to get into one of my rambling whining rants, so I probably will despite myself. In an attempt to curb this compulsion I will tell you a story filled with witticisms, struggle, family intrigue, a fall from grace, and finally, redemption.
When I was just a wee lassy, in order to not corrupt my chaste ears, my Grandma, god rest her soul, used to refer to my vj, her vj, and all vjs for that matter, as a 'possible'. For years, roughly 20, after the blind acceptance of this bizarre terminology began to wane, I puzzled over this question: why? Why, of all cute or cuddly or inoffensive colloquialisms, would she choose to use the word 'possible' in addressing my cookie?
In an effort to unravel this convoluted nest of insanity, this reporter hit the streets, and what she found was astonishing... absolutely nothing.
When sharing humorous anecdotes on what words our grandparents used to refer to our genitalia, my story would have scant effect on my friends apart from perplexion. I studied, inquired, even begged for some clue into this mystery, but no such lead was forthcoming.
On one pre mortem visit I made to my Grandma, I had the presence of mind to ask that maddening question I had so long yearned to have answered; why? As I waited, animation suspended save for a pounding heart and a barely detectable twitch in the corner of my right eye, the suspense killing me, literally (notice, I neglected to include breathing. Remember to always breathe, or you will die. I will elaborate on the physiological repercussions of lack of oxygen, to the body at a later time), she finally parted her lips, and began to utter that most holy of utterances. It was as if the clouds had separated, the clouds being her lips, and god him/her/itself spewed out all his/her/its glorious lumination about the land, and all blessed enough to stand beneath its radiating brilliance, were enlightened with, not the secrets of life, but THE secret to life.
What she said was this: "I don't know. My mother used to say it."
Her mother who has been dead since well before I was born. FRICK!
Since that traumatic, devastatingly devastating incident, I have carried that burden with me, in silence, letting it stew, or ripen, or fester, depending on your perspective or the day I'm having.
But all that changed one fateful night. The most important of all nights in my life thus far, which was either Thursday or Sunday, I can't remember.
So, I'm chatting with a couple of friends, again involved in a grandparent-bequeathed-slang-term-for-genitals conversation, when I relate my heartbreaking story. When I finish, teary eyed and obviously shaken, my friend, Walta, says to me, "Are you kidding? You don't know where that comes from?"
Well, this was the last response that I expected. Contrary to usual post 'possible' events, he wasn't forlorn or desolate, he wasn't as panicked as a recently bombed villager. Neigh, he was sitting there, telling me that he, in all his wisdom, had the answer to the biggest conundrum of my life.
Once I recaptured my breath, and my faltering heart had resumed its regular rhythm, I demanded he proceed.
This is what he told me.
When he was just a young boy, and due to hygienic negligence, had got to smelling pretty ripe, his mother would tell him to "get in the shower and wash as high as possible, wash as low as possible, and don't forget to wash possible."
Wow!
As relieving as it was, it lacked the satisfaction I had longed for for so long. As amusing as it was in a nostalgicly reminiscent of yesteryear type of way, it was a bit of a let down. It was searching for King Tut's tomb, only to find inside of it a King Tut Ken doll.
Don't be mistaken, I would not trade this knowledge for the world (okay, that is a lie), but after so many years of contriving stories about the unlockings of dark family secrets, concocting arcana to which 'possible' was the cipher, it was, suffice it to say, anticlimactic.
But c'est la vie, it's a good story, and you were totally scandalized but also so enticed that you nutted in your panties.
It's time for me to smoke a Nigarette (shout out to LindSAY). I may post yet again today since I'm a truant slacker who just so happens to love to sporadically write things.
Do not be alarmed. This happens with some frequency.
I don't really want to get into one of my rambling whining rants, so I probably will despite myself. In an attempt to curb this compulsion I will tell you a story filled with witticisms, struggle, family intrigue, a fall from grace, and finally, redemption.
When I was just a wee lassy, in order to not corrupt my chaste ears, my Grandma, god rest her soul, used to refer to my vj, her vj, and all vjs for that matter, as a 'possible'. For years, roughly 20, after the blind acceptance of this bizarre terminology began to wane, I puzzled over this question: why? Why, of all cute or cuddly or inoffensive colloquialisms, would she choose to use the word 'possible' in addressing my cookie?
In an effort to unravel this convoluted nest of insanity, this reporter hit the streets, and what she found was astonishing... absolutely nothing.
When sharing humorous anecdotes on what words our grandparents used to refer to our genitalia, my story would have scant effect on my friends apart from perplexion. I studied, inquired, even begged for some clue into this mystery, but no such lead was forthcoming.
On one pre mortem visit I made to my Grandma, I had the presence of mind to ask that maddening question I had so long yearned to have answered; why? As I waited, animation suspended save for a pounding heart and a barely detectable twitch in the corner of my right eye, the suspense killing me, literally (notice, I neglected to include breathing. Remember to always breathe, or you will die. I will elaborate on the physiological repercussions of lack of oxygen, to the body at a later time), she finally parted her lips, and began to utter that most holy of utterances. It was as if the clouds had separated, the clouds being her lips, and god him/her/itself spewed out all his/her/its glorious lumination about the land, and all blessed enough to stand beneath its radiating brilliance, were enlightened with, not the secrets of life, but THE secret to life.
What she said was this: "I don't know. My mother used to say it."
Her mother who has been dead since well before I was born. FRICK!
Since that traumatic, devastatingly devastating incident, I have carried that burden with me, in silence, letting it stew, or ripen, or fester, depending on your perspective or the day I'm having.
But all that changed one fateful night. The most important of all nights in my life thus far, which was either Thursday or Sunday, I can't remember.
So, I'm chatting with a couple of friends, again involved in a grandparent-bequeathed-slang-term-for-genitals conversation, when I relate my heartbreaking story. When I finish, teary eyed and obviously shaken, my friend, Walta, says to me, "Are you kidding? You don't know where that comes from?"
Well, this was the last response that I expected. Contrary to usual post 'possible' events, he wasn't forlorn or desolate, he wasn't as panicked as a recently bombed villager. Neigh, he was sitting there, telling me that he, in all his wisdom, had the answer to the biggest conundrum of my life.
Once I recaptured my breath, and my faltering heart had resumed its regular rhythm, I demanded he proceed.
This is what he told me.
When he was just a young boy, and due to hygienic negligence, had got to smelling pretty ripe, his mother would tell him to "get in the shower and wash as high as possible, wash as low as possible, and don't forget to wash possible."
Wow!
As relieving as it was, it lacked the satisfaction I had longed for for so long. As amusing as it was in a nostalgicly reminiscent of yesteryear type of way, it was a bit of a let down. It was searching for King Tut's tomb, only to find inside of it a King Tut Ken doll.
Don't be mistaken, I would not trade this knowledge for the world (okay, that is a lie), but after so many years of contriving stories about the unlockings of dark family secrets, concocting arcana to which 'possible' was the cipher, it was, suffice it to say, anticlimactic.
But c'est la vie, it's a good story, and you were totally scandalized but also so enticed that you nutted in your panties.
It's time for me to smoke a Nigarette (shout out to LindSAY). I may post yet again today since I'm a truant slacker who just so happens to love to sporadically write things.
Click
So, in a halting, sputtering, clumsily stuttering manner, I am attempting to transform myself into a journalist, a documenter of the professional variety, not through school, and drab papers on uninteresting topics I am forced to trifle away my creative quasi-genius on. Instead, I am starting a new personal campaign I’m calling the “Stop watching TV it will never help you accomplish anything you want, except maybe slightly improving your cooking skills” campaign.
I’m constantly coming across calls for entries for restaurant reviews, articles about Austin places and events, and the like, yet not only do I not write, and subsequently enter nothing, I don’t even peel my ass off of the couch, grab a Chronicle, and go out to see what my city has to offer. So, this week, Thursday to be precise, I’m going to go to an adult spelling bee at Fado, and if I’m feeling especially gutsy, I may even enter, since, as most know, I am an exceptional speller.
Then, on November 14th, Cris and I will drive all the way out to Marble Falls for a play which we’ll be seeing free of cost, save for the bajillion dollars in gas it will cost to get there. My goal is to bring my camera, if I can manage to remember it this time, and a tablet and document the shit out of it. I will then write a review so compelling, it will outshine the play itself, making all who read it, but did not see the play, glad they saved their gas and the environment. I will also do this for the spelling bee that I’m going to win.
Cris is usually reluctant to even want to accompany me on my unexecuted excursion ideas, no matter how economical. He’s agreed to the play, but I think the spelling bee is going to take some work. But regardless of whether my couch warming companion is willing to come along or not, I’m going. I mean, how many times can you watch the same episodes of Scrub’s?
I’m constantly coming across calls for entries for restaurant reviews, articles about Austin places and events, and the like, yet not only do I not write, and subsequently enter nothing, I don’t even peel my ass off of the couch, grab a Chronicle, and go out to see what my city has to offer. So, this week, Thursday to be precise, I’m going to go to an adult spelling bee at Fado, and if I’m feeling especially gutsy, I may even enter, since, as most know, I am an exceptional speller.
Then, on November 14th, Cris and I will drive all the way out to Marble Falls for a play which we’ll be seeing free of cost, save for the bajillion dollars in gas it will cost to get there. My goal is to bring my camera, if I can manage to remember it this time, and a tablet and document the shit out of it. I will then write a review so compelling, it will outshine the play itself, making all who read it, but did not see the play, glad they saved their gas and the environment. I will also do this for the spelling bee that I’m going to win.
Cris is usually reluctant to even want to accompany me on my unexecuted excursion ideas, no matter how economical. He’s agreed to the play, but I think the spelling bee is going to take some work. But regardless of whether my couch warming companion is willing to come along or not, I’m going. I mean, how many times can you watch the same episodes of Scrub’s?
Why? Why? Why?
“Why?” is a complete sentence in itself. I know this because spell check told me. And as highly amusing a topic as this is, I cannot proceed. I can’t because I am wondering about a few things.
Am I making the right decisions? Are there wrong decisions? I don’t want to start waxing philosophical because I have real concerns that can’t likely be helped by mental masturbation (but it feels oh so good!). I worry that I am sacrificing myself, and that I am not strong enough not to lose me, not to forget me. I worry that I can’t accept people that I love, and that I’ll never really love anyone because I can’t accept them. How many things do you really have to have in common? How much compromise (or sacrifice on a bad day) is acceptable? Do I really want to be around someone like me? Do I always have to be right? Can’t any body take a fucking joke? Should I censor myself because no one can take a fucking joke? Was it really a fucking joke? Am I allowed to think he’s wrong? That just takes me right back to: Do I always have to be right? Are relationships really just two people trying to change each other?
I got an email from a friend today. All it said was, “write something today.” That person cares about me. And although this isn’t likely what my friend had in mind, I did write, this, and I only actually coerced myself to do it because those three words kept popping into my head. Write something today. Apparently I’m not the only one who gives a frick about my writing, which is good because I obviously don’t give enough of a frick.
Tonight Cris and I made some sesame chicken and broccoli with rice. It was yummy. The chicken was moist and tender, much like a recently used vagina. The sauce had all the important Asian flavor components, which are: sweet, salty, spicy, bitter, and MSG. Necessarily, I didn’t wind up going to work. I was easily dissuaded.
I only mention our succulent feast because it was assigned to me to write about something (presumably other than poop and my perpetual problems) for at least five minutes every day. A few options on the menu du jour are bands I saw, restaurants I ate at, streets I walked down, public toilets I employed, or even just meals I prepared at home. Since I did nothing of consequence today, you get home made sesame chicken, and very little of it for that matter. We ate it all.
Though I suppose it would be mildly amusing to dissertate on the TABC certification course I spent four and a half irretrievable hours of my life completing today. It was super. More on that later. It is 1:39 a.m. what do you think I am some sort of heathen? Frick!
Am I making the right decisions? Are there wrong decisions? I don’t want to start waxing philosophical because I have real concerns that can’t likely be helped by mental masturbation (but it feels oh so good!). I worry that I am sacrificing myself, and that I am not strong enough not to lose me, not to forget me. I worry that I can’t accept people that I love, and that I’ll never really love anyone because I can’t accept them. How many things do you really have to have in common? How much compromise (or sacrifice on a bad day) is acceptable? Do I really want to be around someone like me? Do I always have to be right? Can’t any body take a fucking joke? Should I censor myself because no one can take a fucking joke? Was it really a fucking joke? Am I allowed to think he’s wrong? That just takes me right back to: Do I always have to be right? Are relationships really just two people trying to change each other?
I got an email from a friend today. All it said was, “write something today.” That person cares about me. And although this isn’t likely what my friend had in mind, I did write, this, and I only actually coerced myself to do it because those three words kept popping into my head. Write something today. Apparently I’m not the only one who gives a frick about my writing, which is good because I obviously don’t give enough of a frick.
Tonight Cris and I made some sesame chicken and broccoli with rice. It was yummy. The chicken was moist and tender, much like a recently used vagina. The sauce had all the important Asian flavor components, which are: sweet, salty, spicy, bitter, and MSG. Necessarily, I didn’t wind up going to work. I was easily dissuaded.
I only mention our succulent feast because it was assigned to me to write about something (presumably other than poop and my perpetual problems) for at least five minutes every day. A few options on the menu du jour are bands I saw, restaurants I ate at, streets I walked down, public toilets I employed, or even just meals I prepared at home. Since I did nothing of consequence today, you get home made sesame chicken, and very little of it for that matter. We ate it all.
Though I suppose it would be mildly amusing to dissertate on the TABC certification course I spent four and a half irretrievable hours of my life completing today. It was super. More on that later. It is 1:39 a.m. what do you think I am some sort of heathen? Frick!
Monday, October 8
Reply to an "Anonymous" Commenter
Since receiving this “anonymous” comment:
“It is a sad thing to see,,,,families torn apart by anger and bitterness.....but you are the pot calling the kettle black!!! I have no pity for someone like you. But wait....maybe someone like you should be pitied. Someone that has no clue about anything. Do not ever think you know what went on....because you dont. We are glad we never have to see you. You are pathetic,” in response to this post, I’ve been doing a lot of back and forth deliberation in my mind on how to respond to it.
When I first signed into my blogger account, I was elated to find two unmoderated comments (nearly half my annual influx) awaiting my scrutinization and approval. As I read through this comment, as my pulse quickened, and my stomach rolled, I realized that this was my first piece of hate mail, which, I won’t lie, was pretty exciting. But when I got to the end of this ridiculous rant of retaliation, I realized that despite first appearances, this commenter wasn’t anonymous. It was my ex-stepmother.
Not from just some brief, mid-life-crisis marriage between my dad and some one twenty years his senior. No, this is the Ruthie mentioned in the entry I’ve linked. The one towards whom, along with my dad, I’ve harbored bitter feelings regarding my sorry adolescence, but was actually beginning to forgive when the pettiness of such grudges bludgeoned me in the head with my Grandmother’s death. I have known this woman since I was two. She acted as my mother until I moved out of my parent’s house when I was sixteen.
So naturally I was a bit shaken up by the comment. I smoked my first cigarette of the day at 5 o’clock in the evening after reading it. I even shed a few tears.
As I’m sure you have noticed, I have absolutely no problem with airing my personal business right here on my very own cozy little blog. I could tell you a multitude of things to convince you of, not just my ex-stepmother’s mistakes (we aren’t talking about my dad here), but her evilness as well. I could insult her, belittle, and berate her. I could be mean, very very mean. And believe me, in the days since I received the comment, I have written countless searing retorts in my mind. But after no small amount of reasoning with my self, and an even not smaller amount of reasoning from Cris, I’ve decided against that. Actually, Cris doesn’t even think I should respond, but to me, this isn’t some random insult from an internet surfer who has exhausted their supply of porn. This is someone who has impacted my life severely, and despite the positive connotation of the word ‘impacted’, I do not mean it that way. I mean that, although I won’t be mean, I don’t care about being the bigger person. I care that this ‘anonymous’ hater know how things really are.
So here goes:
One big thing…bitterness and anger didn’t destroy our family. Lies did. Your lies. You know what I’m talking about.
Second, even if my family had been destroyed by bitterness and anger, what’s it to ya? You removed yourself from my family when you cheated on my dad and left him for some one else’s husband. I know you’re thinking to yourself, “She doesn’t know what went on. Todd cheated on me too.” Well, I did know. Hello, I did live with both of you, and it isn’t as if you quietly discussed all of your problems behind the locked doors of your bedroom, though some times you did yell through them. No, you screamed about them, daily. And don’t believe for a second that I’m in the dark about things that went on in our house. I know more than you think.
Also, as a quick aside, and I know I’m being a little mean here, but what the hey? Isn’t it interesting how quickly you ceased to be considered family despite your many years involved in it, and how my mom is still considered family by my dad’s family despite her many years absent? Very interesting. Very telling.
Thirdly, you say I don’t know what went on. Even if that were true, it’s completely moot, since I do know that despite adult situations that children can’t understand, there is a right way that kids should be treated. They should come first; they should be educated, if not in school, then in the home school you withdrew them from public school to be in; they shouldn’t be withheld from their education in order to raise their younger siblings, clean the house and do the laundry. These things seem simple enough, and yet you failed to accomplish them in raising your first round of kids. I hope you’ve grown up for Tori and Julia. Maybe some day you’ll grow up enough to understand and admit that despite what you went through, how you did Melody and me was wrong.
Lastly, and this is last just because I don’t really feel like devoting too much more energy to this, either you are severely mentally deficient, or you didn’t actually read the posting to which you so rudely replied. I was trying to let go of petty grudges and bitterness because I saw, in the face of a loved one’s death, that they don’t fucking matter. I guess I had overestimated you in imagining that maybe time and mortality, or even your religion that teaches compassion and forgiveness, had done the same. Well, that’s all blown to hell. I don’t forgive you. I don’t because you don’t even admit you were wrong, and being the person that you are, that everyone knows you are (trust me on that one), you never will.
So maybe I am the kind of person who should be pitied. I had a lousy past with some lousy people in it. Now I’m happy, healthy, in love, in school, and I don’t allow those kinds of people, people like you, to be a part a part of my life. Please, pity me. My life sucks.
“It is a sad thing to see,,,,families torn apart by anger and bitterness.....but you are the pot calling the kettle black!!! I have no pity for someone like you. But wait....maybe someone like you should be pitied. Someone that has no clue about anything. Do not ever think you know what went on....because you dont. We are glad we never have to see you. You are pathetic,” in response to this post, I’ve been doing a lot of back and forth deliberation in my mind on how to respond to it.
When I first signed into my blogger account, I was elated to find two unmoderated comments (nearly half my annual influx) awaiting my scrutinization and approval. As I read through this comment, as my pulse quickened, and my stomach rolled, I realized that this was my first piece of hate mail, which, I won’t lie, was pretty exciting. But when I got to the end of this ridiculous rant of retaliation, I realized that despite first appearances, this commenter wasn’t anonymous. It was my ex-stepmother.
Not from just some brief, mid-life-crisis marriage between my dad and some one twenty years his senior. No, this is the Ruthie mentioned in the entry I’ve linked. The one towards whom, along with my dad, I’ve harbored bitter feelings regarding my sorry adolescence, but was actually beginning to forgive when the pettiness of such grudges bludgeoned me in the head with my Grandmother’s death. I have known this woman since I was two. She acted as my mother until I moved out of my parent’s house when I was sixteen.
So naturally I was a bit shaken up by the comment. I smoked my first cigarette of the day at 5 o’clock in the evening after reading it. I even shed a few tears.
As I’m sure you have noticed, I have absolutely no problem with airing my personal business right here on my very own cozy little blog. I could tell you a multitude of things to convince you of, not just my ex-stepmother’s mistakes (we aren’t talking about my dad here), but her evilness as well. I could insult her, belittle, and berate her. I could be mean, very very mean. And believe me, in the days since I received the comment, I have written countless searing retorts in my mind. But after no small amount of reasoning with my self, and an even not smaller amount of reasoning from Cris, I’ve decided against that. Actually, Cris doesn’t even think I should respond, but to me, this isn’t some random insult from an internet surfer who has exhausted their supply of porn. This is someone who has impacted my life severely, and despite the positive connotation of the word ‘impacted’, I do not mean it that way. I mean that, although I won’t be mean, I don’t care about being the bigger person. I care that this ‘anonymous’ hater know how things really are.
So here goes:
One big thing…bitterness and anger didn’t destroy our family. Lies did. Your lies. You know what I’m talking about.
Second, even if my family had been destroyed by bitterness and anger, what’s it to ya? You removed yourself from my family when you cheated on my dad and left him for some one else’s husband. I know you’re thinking to yourself, “She doesn’t know what went on. Todd cheated on me too.” Well, I did know. Hello, I did live with both of you, and it isn’t as if you quietly discussed all of your problems behind the locked doors of your bedroom, though some times you did yell through them. No, you screamed about them, daily. And don’t believe for a second that I’m in the dark about things that went on in our house. I know more than you think.
Also, as a quick aside, and I know I’m being a little mean here, but what the hey? Isn’t it interesting how quickly you ceased to be considered family despite your many years involved in it, and how my mom is still considered family by my dad’s family despite her many years absent? Very interesting. Very telling.
Thirdly, you say I don’t know what went on. Even if that were true, it’s completely moot, since I do know that despite adult situations that children can’t understand, there is a right way that kids should be treated. They should come first; they should be educated, if not in school, then in the home school you withdrew them from public school to be in; they shouldn’t be withheld from their education in order to raise their younger siblings, clean the house and do the laundry. These things seem simple enough, and yet you failed to accomplish them in raising your first round of kids. I hope you’ve grown up for Tori and Julia. Maybe some day you’ll grow up enough to understand and admit that despite what you went through, how you did Melody and me was wrong.
Lastly, and this is last just because I don’t really feel like devoting too much more energy to this, either you are severely mentally deficient, or you didn’t actually read the posting to which you so rudely replied. I was trying to let go of petty grudges and bitterness because I saw, in the face of a loved one’s death, that they don’t fucking matter. I guess I had overestimated you in imagining that maybe time and mortality, or even your religion that teaches compassion and forgiveness, had done the same. Well, that’s all blown to hell. I don’t forgive you. I don’t because you don’t even admit you were wrong, and being the person that you are, that everyone knows you are (trust me on that one), you never will.
So maybe I am the kind of person who should be pitied. I had a lousy past with some lousy people in it. Now I’m happy, healthy, in love, in school, and I don’t allow those kinds of people, people like you, to be a part a part of my life. Please, pity me. My life sucks.
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