After last night’s post, I went searching for a piece I wrote three years ago. I spoke of my love of Lady H and how we passionately tangoed on razor wire. And we did. You see, the dance ended at midnight, but I didn’t want the night to end. In my crazy world, I needed a love that was always there, never angry, and understood any and everything I said and felt. She did, indeed, do that for me until she forced me to find other lovers. Isn’t that always the way? I usually make light of everything I can. I smile and joke but it’s to camouflage the storm. Although, I do firmly believe laughter is the best for all that ails. True, it’s frowned upon in three handfuls of situations. I never said I always have great idea. I mean if I pull out the list of evidence, it will be a continuous stream and nobody has time for that. Anyway, as I was searching for that post I found a treasure trove of smiles and chuckles. I know it’s a bit early for a montage but I’m bringing one on.
Blossoming into Bipolar
Even though I opt for humor surrounding some of the issues I deal with, I still struggle with them. Something has rang True with me and I paraphrase what one of my most loved people said “…I was blossoming into bipolar.” In today’s age, hasn’t everyone? No, it just seems that way. It’s another media trend (like dying of the Black Plague and Typhoid when it’s just a sinus infection. Thanks, WebMD!) I know people who really, really deal with the reality of being bipolar on a minute to minute basis. Some of us rapid cycle and some slow cycle. In my case, I am a speed demon. Add the sugar issues and Satan weeps in my presence. Today, I am not blasting anyone. Today, I am asking you all to really look at yourself. On top of working with a psych, I do everything I can think of to make me better, up to and including thanking and apologizing to my loved ones for loving me. I will probably never get it right or be off my meds, again. If you’re the lucky ones who can be, I wish you the brightest blessings. This has been a life long journey for me and it continues. I will find the light, even when I think it’s impossible.
Aside for Sugar
My beloved says my superhero name should be Sugar Tantrum. You see, folks, there’s a huge bowl of chocolate mousse in our fridge. It’s in there, dancing its sexy-sexy dance, begging me and triple-dog daring me to get blackout sugar wasted off its mighty scrumptious power. Justin has been telling Odhin and me of this miraculous disaster-waiting-to-happen for a while. He artfully and beautifully made a metric fuck ton last night. Why? Because I’ve been asking and he’s a masochist. Wanna see what this man endures? Toddlers in Tiaras – I just found this out yesterday. Yep, there’s a visual aid where no one gets hurt. Look for Makenzie, she’s the epitome of these special moments. I probably should be televised too. Mr Masochistic, on the other hand, thinks the networks would mess up my new name and shorten it to Tantrum. Oh, how I love him so.
The Boy (the younger, that is)
Sometimes having a hearing impaired child is doubly special because he can’t gage his volumes. I just overheard him, from his room, on XBOX Live saying, “You used up all the glue on purpose!” (The Old Man from A Christmas Story)
If his maternity was ever in question, it is no longer.
It occurred to me really loving this holiday season means finding not just basking in light that surrounds but courageously bringing light in dark spaces, you know like when you want to assault a fellow shopper with a Buzz Lightyear doll and making sure you exorcise their demons with Buzz’s laser. See light into dark!
They’re probably the most disliked bird on the planet and the boldest. The other day, I was driving through our neighborhood with Oey when one of the seagulls that flock to a nearby house for snacks decides it was going to lope across the street in front of me. It was as bad as those pedestrians who don’t follow the ‘knees to chest’ protocol when crossing the street. This guy kept eye contact with me to mentally taunt me with his slow walking “yeah, that’s right, bitch” demeanor. I could’ve plowed into him but I believe his kind actually served a purpose; plus I was stunned. My ravens and crows need to have a discussion with this bad ass bird. You know, just to remind him I take no shit, wave slippers at his folks but feed everyday to every other day, if he wants to sidle in.
An excerpt from the Lovie Chronicles:
She’s my copilot, activities supervisor, squirrel deflector (take that ya little bastards!), and bed warming pillow pet next to Justin. Together, they’re skin melting inferno blanket thieves and I switch sides beside them throughout the night as one standing in front of a fire. So, it goes without saying, my bunny hopping baby is ever at my side. You’d think I would’ve noticed when she stayed out in the yard last night. Nope. That is, until it hit me. Not her absence but the smell that proceeded her entrance. You know the song ‘Creeping Death’? It went from creeping to a dead run as she came through the door! Everything started to spin. She wanted on me. I was in some strange tonal wail for Fricke to get the baby wipes (yeah, that wasn’t going to help) and Odhin wanted to film it all. She discovered the fruit in the compost pile unblocked an entire nation of woodland creatures and had herself a spa moment. Little furry spawns of unholy torment! Unleash your fecal fury in someone else’s yard.
….After the spa day
There I am in the kitchen at ‘this blows goats’ o’clock in the morning (Holy Mother of the Bee Gees, yes, it’s a real time) and I’m in a haze, reflecting on stuff (it’s scientific terminology, sheesh) when my magnificent brain pops up with ‘I love our love’. But then the body pain sets in and it all comes flooding back to me. Justin walks in to find me with my hand clenched to the warm mug and asks me how I’m doing. “Awesome. I want to thank you and the dog for my six inches of the top, lefthand corner of the bed last night. Seriously, you sweating, her snoring, me freezing – it just doesn’t get any better than that.” Wanna know what? It really doesn’t. I wouldn’t trade my contorted, hitting my eye socket on the bedside table, struggling for a section of blanket from anywhere in the known US, nights for one hour of sleeping without him. I guess I do really love our love.
Everyone plays games in one form or another. Yes, even if you say you don’t there’s game you play. Mine, in the past were roller derby, eccentric/archaic/odd trivia gathering, Nintendo, slot machines, men with mommy issues, chemical mixing and results thereof, and rebuilding my kingdom from the ground up. Not clustered together, mind you…well, maybe some of them at times. Some I still play because let’s face it, I’m a geek and even though I’ve been told it’s a horrible trait, I wear my heart on my sleeve for those I allow in – and what an incredibly mixed lot that is. I’m not wishy washy. I’m just truly person selective. Anyhow, some of the games I have put on the shelf (never to be replayed). I’ve learned from them. I don’t need to explain how they bested me because I refuse to play victim. I was an active participant willing to take part. But now, I have new games that have integrated with the older ones I’ve kept playing. These now amend my list to: believing love is more than a fairytale despite the decline in mass society, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK IS MR BUBBLES EATING NOW, and Tins’ Consumption Roulette – the food and beverage edition (non-alco, never been a thing). I think I need new games to play.
An Open Letter
Dear Water Heater,
You suck. If I could give you the ‘Old Yeller’ treatment right now, I would. For your information, I happen to like shaving in the shower without it turning a glacier-esque waterfall, no matter how the beauty experts preach that it’s good for you. No, I don’t wanna fill up the tub and do it in there. That happens to be where my brain has the activity of a young otter and no one (not even me) wants that. I digress. Just know, I dream of a tankless system. Just know, I think you gargle more balls than the discount hookers in Aberdeen. Just know…just know.
An Observation (Possibly an offensive one)
I need to get this anywhere but in my mind. This has been tap dancing there for a while. I believe everyone should love and accept themselves. I believe everyone should express themselves in ways that feel good to them. I’m going to do so now. ATTENTION WOMEN of all shapes and sizes: Please, for the love of all things holy, STOP wearing shorts that get swallowed by your vagina.
My plea is not to oppress you in the new world of ‘insert descriptor’ acceptance. It’s because I don’t want to know you like that. It’s true I’m not a fan of people (in the universal sense) but if you want to strike up a conversation, I damn sure don’t want to be plagued with the notion you should be rescuing your clothes from your crotch. That’s all for now. Who knows what my next outcry will be next. It’s more than likely about not bathing in perfume/cologne. Yes, I do wear it daily. But number 1: I wear scents that don’t burn the nostrils. Number 2: I don’t use it in lieu of a shower.
Do Your Research
I’m a reader and research, a lot. Today’s topics have been a cornucopia of brain candy, seemingly useless trivia (oh, but I do eventually use it, believe you, me), and other topics that instantly hold my attention. I was reading about “Bad Life Choices” that were really just drops in the bucket. Have they ever blown through tens of thousands of dollars without anything to show for it but scars and trauma (not to mention a permanent stigma)? No, they threw a phone into the ocean or drank their own piss. Some people do that for health reasons, which is beyond me but drink away; they aren’t my taste buds. But then, then folks, I moved on to research hard boiled eggs and their life expectancy while mentally flogging myself for all the absolutely “Why didn’t I wake up?!” moments to find that if I eat the neon green glitter eggs from Easter in my fridge, I will probably fall down a lot and die….and then really not wake up. I love eggs but I love waking up more. Hard Boiled Eggs = 1 week refrigerated