Michelle Anderson Picarella; Illogically Logical

Monday, June 17, 2013

Don't Ever Argue with Yourself. You'll lose.

I was in a fantastic mood, listening to the radio and dancing when I noticed my teenage daughter looking at me in total confusion-- almost embarrassed in our own home. This makes no sense, you see, I am the coolest mom in history. At least that is what she thought until her age started having the phrase "teen" at the end. I am pretty young to have a teenage daughter. We share a southern Gilmore Girls relationship, the two of us. It can be such a beautiful thing. (The photo below, oddly quotes a phrase my daughter often throws at me.)
Okay, it can be beautiful. It can also be full of dry wit and sarcasm. Still, I wouldn't have it any other way. I think. Unless, obviously, I am dancing and she looks at me like I stepped out of some horrible reality show- You know, the kind you pass and know you should keep clicking the remote but something about it draws you in and you are pure ashamed of the entertainment value you have or else you would have changed the channel by now. You better redneckonize and holla for that dolla. 
So, I'm dancing. I'm dancing. A little bit of singing. And the harder I try to pull her into this wonderful Selena Gomez number, the more she looks at me in disbelief. She mentions something about how she wonders if our brains were switched when she was born. Ewww. At first, I am highly offended and then, the ah-ha moment kicks in. I am the mother of a teenager. Oh Lord, I remember this. My daughter is not this chipper, gum chewing, gossip girl sort. No. That would be easy. She has to be just like me. If you weren't around for my own teenage years, well, good for you. It was....something. 
So I am looking at her. She is laid back and super cool with her headband and pony tail with hair clips because, I guess one thing in her hair is not expressive enough. She is rocking her retro Madonna t-shirt, faded jeans and anklet. Dark black nails, to boot. Oh crap, I am trying to have a discussion with teen-me. Oy vey. She explains to me how pop music is simply not what she relates with. She is more into Korn, Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson. I laugh, and remember my room, plastered in posters- every inch. And now this way awesome deep teenage soul that relates to songs of rebellion, angst, and things I may ground her for because, well, I know all the words to the songs. Let's leave it there- she is like totally dissing my love for the shallow pop music. Oh, how I used to judge those pop people. 
So, going back to that dry wit and sarcasm, I reach out to my daughter. I want her to know I have been there. I remember that feeling. For some reason, when I do a speech, I do it in a random voice. Not an impression, just a stepping out of myself, in a voice that may be related to sort of voice. And my speech goes something like this: 
"Oh yeah. I know. I was there. I was you. Dark and moody in search of outlets for my artistic expressions. The music of modern day mainstream simply does not grasp the pain, the suffering of reality. I used to dress in black from head to toe, my hair all in my face, a huge cross around my neck that would make the gangstas jealous, and my black nails. I like totally feel so much when I hear true beauty in musical resentment- the revolting, the agony. I mean, I like totally felt abused when I listened to Korn sing about it. I mean...totally." 
Score one for mommy-humor, right? Ha. Not with mini-me. Without skipping a beat, she crinkles her brows like she cannot believe I would ever say such. This is when she walks over to me and gives me her own speech. It went a little something like this:
"Okay, first, what is up with the voice? Why do you suddenly sound like Ozzy? Sharoooooon! Come on, and look at you. I mean, come on, mom, really? You are still wearing black all over- just a little t-shirt and capris- but look, all black. You have a cross around your neck still. Oh, sorry, it is smaller now, right? Yeah, all you got different now is some pink nail polish and a hair clip."
Mama bear, all in black, just got told....or served....whatever them youngins' call it these days.
She laughs. Everyone laughs. Ha Ha Ha.
The moral of it all comes down to one thing; 
I may be embarrassing at times but she is just like me.
----> This is her future.<----- p="">
Keep laughing. 
Truth of it all. That is us, summed up. We are dark. Our humor is off. But overall, we keep each other grounded. And as much as she makes me feel old, she reminds me how young I really am. That is beautiful. 

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Over-analyzing a piece of clothing, white chocolate and a matching dog.

Monday is the most hated day of the week for a reason. It tends to be a day of Murphy's Law. When you have an excellent Monday, it is topic worthy due to the rareness. Yesterday was the Mother Monday of Mondays. It did not end until 3 in the morning, which is technically Tuesday which technically spread the Monday germs all over my Tuesday. I call foul. Monday should get a lashing.
To sum up only some of the highlights of the day, we will say doctor appointment for kid, haircut for kid gone bad, second doctor appointment for kid (not due to haircut, no worries), back and forth run for prescriptions, massive rain equalling an afro atop my q-tip pixie hairstyle, another kid sick that evening and a final collapsing of three kids beside me on the couch for the less than four hours to call the night's rest.

Today was kid sickery, a doctor visit for me on the grand path to getting on the right medication for the fibro so I can get back to the neurologists and figure out the mystery illness that acts like Parkinsons, more rain,bugger afro, being impressed with the week enough to leave the house in jammie pants (those close to me are gasping now), and finally, a collapsing nap on the couch. P.S.- I blame the couch. I got a new Ashley double reclining sofa for a hella deal that makes you wanna sing about poppin tags even though the mofo was new and it screams, "sleep with me!" Slut of a couch that it is.

Anyway, I fall asleep. Hard. The next thing I know, I am digging through a table full of candy. Mostly white chocolate (the only candy that truly must exist in the world- which I rarely give into the temptations of the rich  pure sweetness.) I look around and I am in this room, like a hotel room, but in my mind, I know it is an apartment even though it is just a bedroom- a cluttered mess of a room full of things. The one thing I notice and recognize in reality is this green sweater stretched across one of two unmade beds. I know that sweater well. It was hers. My grandmother. I get excited. I love it when she comes to me in dreams. It always means something. She helps in some way. It doesn't matter if she is telling me to walk and be strong or if she is sliding a book that should belong to me past me and in to the hands of someone else. She guides me.

But no. Not this time. I hurt. A crippling pain one should not feel in their dreams. The idea of pain can exist, but the true physical pain should not be possible. Yet, there it is. The open incision of a broken heart beating so hard it nears exploding. She isn't in this dream. Only her memory. This room is for some reason supposed to be hers and I am there. But why?

They say you start forgetting a dream the moment you wake, and I never buy this idea because I recall so many details but I walk by the dresser and look at this photo for a moment. It falls as I pass it and I ignore it and go towards the door. But no, something forces me to step back and pick the photo up and place it properly on the dresser. It must be important, but for the life of me, I cannot recall who was in this photo. I clinch my eyes and fight hard to regain the image, but no. It is only a fog.

Small trinkets cover the dresser. Nothing I notice from reality. Letters, cards- it all looks like memories, but not my own. I feel like exploring would be prying. I walk back to the door and open it and call out for the children to come get candy. Kids pour in the room as I hand out as much of this candy covering the table that I possibly can. The crowd of young ones dwindle until I am alone again, but I leave the door open just in case a child hears of the free candy. I keep looking at the sweater. It is so bright and green. It is spread so perfectly across the bed.

Then I feel eyes on me. Uncomfortable eyes. Untrusting eyes. I am not a timid sort, so I turn to face the gaze that is turning my stomach. A man stands in the doorway with a look that represents everything uninnocent. I am prepared to take him on and out. He is gangly and short. Not a problem.

I underestimate this weird man- this maniac and before I know it, my hands are twisted behind my back, I am forced face down onto the first bed in front of the other and I can feel this is obviously going to be a horrid nightmare. I close my eyes but the room shakes. Maybe it is me, I think, my body going through more tremors. I open my eyes as the grip on my wrists let go a good bit. The other bed, directly behind me is shaking and vibrating at earthquake proportion. It is elevating. The horrible man runs off and I collapse in a full sob on the bed. I don't know why I am here. I don't know why any of this is happening. I don't know why she is not there. I can feel her and smell her and see things that are supposed to belong to her, the green sweater, I know for a fact is hers. I am furious. I know I am in a dream, I think. I think I know. I hope I am. Madness and sorrow takes over and I don't know what to do with it. I grab her sweater. That perfect green sweater and I sniff it. Emptiness fills my nose. Not a lingering part of her exists in the sweater beyond the memory of her wearing it. I rip it apart. Piece by piece until jade threads cover the floor.

I walk over, and for some reason, I eat a  bite of that white chocolate. I the discover a sliding glass door that was not there before and walk outside. From the backyard, it is dark. A cool night. The deck is made out of terra cotta pots upside down. The bottoms are etched to look like decking boards and my dear friend and ex is there by the steps to tell me to step gently so the pots do not shatter. It is the most beautiful deck I'd ever seen. He told me how it costs us three hundred dollars but that only slightly hurt my big move. I don't know where I am moving, but in the dream, I don't question it.

I get into my car, my real car,and the back hatch opens. An old very southern and proper black lady tosses in a bag of dog food and gets into the back seat with this dog- this white adorable sad-eyed dog. She tells me I need to take it. It needs a home. I want this dog. My gosh, I want it. It is whimpering and licking my arm but I detach and tell her I cannot. I am moving. I don't know where I am going and I can't take this dog not knowing my path.

I watch through the windshield as the night sky gets darker and darker until I am not sure if the dream exists and where I am.

I wake up in tears. My cheeks, soaking wet. I try to analyze everything- the white chocolate, the sweater, the photo I cannot recall, the horrible man, the kids, the terra cotta deck, the dog.... Nothing makes sense other than I miss her and I don't feel guided in any sort of direction.

So, I do what I do. I look it up. I find the meaning. I, as some say, over-analyze. I could have worse habits.

Enjoy the workings of my mind:

To see chocolate in your dream signifies love, celebration and self-reward. It also suggests that you may be indulging in too many excesses and need to practice some restraint.
To eat chocolate in your dream indicates that you are embracing your own sensuality.

To see children in your dream signify an aspect of yourself and your childlike qualities. You may be retreating back to a childlike state and longing for the past. You are trying to still satisfy repressed desires and unfulfilled hopes. Perhaps there is something that you need to see grow and nurture. Take some time off and cater to the inner child within. Alternatively, the dream may be highlighting your innocence, purity, simplicity, and carefree attitude. If you are fighting with children, then it implies that you are repressing your inner child.

To see your grandmother in your dream represents nurturance, protection, and unconditional love. Consider the qualities and characteristics that exist in your own grandmother.�She may also be the archetypal symbol of the wise old woman.

To see your bed in your dream represents your intimate self and discovery of your sexuality. You may be looking for domestic bliss, for peace or for some form of escape. If the bed is unmade, then it indicates that certain secrets will soon be exposed or revealed.
 You may be feeling inhibited in expressing your sexuality. Alternatively, it may mean that you are looking for domestic security and happiness. Or you just need more sleep.
To dream that you are floating or lifting up into the air from your bed suggests that you are feeling helpless and� disconnected from those around you.

To see a photograph in your dream indicates that there is a relationship that needs your attention.�You are not looking deep enough into the problem.Consider who or what is on the photo. The image may be trying to take you back to a particular moment in time.

Two (beds)
Two stands for balance, diversity, partnership, marriage cooperation, soul, or receptivity. It can also symbolize double weakness or double strength. The world is seen as being made up of dualities and opposites, as in the male and female, mother and father, light and dark, heaven and hell, yin and yang, etc.

To dream that you were raped or almost raped indicates vengeful or resentful feelings toward the opposite sex. You feel that you have been violated or that you have been taken advantage of. Something or someone is jeopardizing your self-esteem and emotional well-being. Things are being forced upon you. Dreams of rape are also common for those who were actually raped in their waking life.

To dream that you are out on the deck represents your connection with your Self and with nature. You need to be more aware of your surroundings and appreciate the environment. Alternatively, the dream may be a metaphor that you are all "decked out" for some special occasion. You are showing off.

Pot (the deck)
To see a pot in your dream represents your attitudes. The dream may be revealing hidden anger or frustration. You are up to something. 

To dream that you are driving a car denotes your ambition, your drive and your ability to navigate from one stage of your life to another. Consider how smooth or rough the car ride is. If you are driving the car, then you are taking an active role in the way your life is going. 

To see a stranger in your dream signifies a part of yourself that is repressed and hidden. Alternatively, it symbolizes the archetypal dream helper who is offering you insight and advice.

White Dog 
To see a white colored dog in your dream indicates that the intentions of a friend are pure and true.

To see a dog in your dream symbolizes intuition, loyalty, generosity, protection, and fidelity. The dream suggests that your strong values and good intentions will enable you to go forward in the world and bring you success. The dream dog may also represent someone in your life who exhibits these qualities. Alternatively, to see a dog in your dream indicates a skill that you may have ignored or forgotten.

To have a dream that takes place at night represents some major setbacks and obstacles in achieving your goals. You are being faced with an issue that is not so clear cut. Perhaps, you should put the issues aside so you can clear your head and come back to it later. Alternatively, night may be synonymous with death, rebirth, reflection, and new beginnings.
To dream that it is night time, but it is still as bright as day, indicates that you now have clarity and insight into a once unclear situation. Something that was previously hidden is now being revealed to you.

And finally......

To see or wear a sweater in your dream symbolizes warmth and love. You have a strong connection to your family and home life. Alternatively, a sweater represents innocence, immaturity, and/or naive thinking.

Green signifies a positive change, good health, growth, fertility, healing, hope, vigor, vitality, peace, and serenity. The appearance of the color may also be a way of telling you to "go ahead". Alternatively, green is a metaphor for a lack of experience in some task. 
Money, wealth and jealousy are often associated with this color.
Dark green indicates materialism, cheating, deceit, and/or difficulties with sharing. You need to balance your masculine and feminine attributes.

To rip something in your dream indicates dissatisfaction with the direction that a project or situation is going. Alternatively, the dream may be a pun on "rip off" or "to rip on someone" as in to insult or bad mouth them. Consider if these scenarios parallel your waking situation.
To see something rip in your dream suggests that you are overestimating the strength of something. In particular, to dream that your notebook is ripped means that you lack confidence in your ability to write and convey your thoughts. Alternatively, the dream may be a metaphor to signify the acronym for "R.I.P."

So there we go. The dream. The meanings. Of course I can analyze the heck out of it and place people in the meanings of each thing. 
To sum it up. The sweater is because I love and miss her and everything is sums up the struggles of the past eight months- of health, heart, soul and beyond. But I am HBIC. I get what I want. I always come out on top. I will heal. I may not ever be the old me again but that is okay. I need to accept that because a better, stronger, evolved me is aching to escape the cocoon. Are you ready? I am. 

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

The concept of Nothing Lasts Forever

Once upon a time,  this quote was the truest of true. Modern times have ran over this idea, backed up and ran over it again and again.

Before social media, it was like our lives were half written in pen and half in cheap pencil. Some things, some choices- lasted forever no matter how much we wanted to erase them, but luckily, a good portion of our life was penciled into what we consider our history. We might know the truth of the story of our lives, but the rest of the world would only see the clean edited version.

Many of us are parents, and as parents we push the importance of everything we post online being forever. We monitor to avoid them posting a rude status, a photo, a joke in bad taste that may haunt them one day. Sometimes, some of us forget how true this is in our own reality.

I have seen many people lately attempt to erase their past. Maybe they regret something. Maybe choices had to be made. Maybe their opinions on topics have changed- take me, five years ago, I was the most liberal of liberals the south could imagine. Now, I want guns and borders protected. I hold a lot of my "liberal" views, and likely always will on some topics, but now I just want to be an American. Still, if you research me, you are going to find some mighty liberal posts on various sites. They will be there forever. I don't hold shame in this. I love the me I was. I love the me that I am. I love the me I am becoming. I live my life with very little regret and at the times I said those things, I meant it. Even if I do not hold the same political opinions, I am not some hard head un-evolved blind straight ticket voter. I can see both sides and that, I like.

On the other hand, I also post personal things. This blog, twitter, facebook- I am me. I have a professional work blog for literary musings but as separate as they may be- both are still me. If a reader, a business prospect, a friend- if they google me, they will find all of my literary travels, but they will find my tweets and facebook- and this- a personal blog full of hopes, dreams, rants, heartbreaks and anything I choose to put out there.

I do not regret anything I have posted. Good for me. Really, especially on the realms of heartbreaks of recent times, I was sort of thrown to the wolves publicly anyway, and blogs became easier than endless amounts of one on one conversations of the ex that decided to play Find Waldo with the literary world. LOL.

I just as much do not regret posts about neighbors from hell, because somehow, I became blessed with neighbors that were nothing less than blessings. I do not regret any tweets or posts about fornicating chickens as I try to carry on business chats, because- come on, how many authors try to talk business and have to pretend like these birds aren't putting the chick in bow-chicka- bow-wow as conversations an even blog radio interviews get very professional?

On the other hand, some people DO regret choices made in what they have said on social media and blogs. They wish to erase it. Blogs, comments, even social media accounts are deleted to erase these things that cannot be undone, but the proof of it would be nice. Edited versions of life are always much cleaner.

But welcome to the new age. Where your life is no longer ever documented in pencil, a life where your rough draft goes straight to print. Social media has become a bar and the web is the tender you tell it all to and it listens well. Just like a bar, you tell that bartender your rants about work, friends, family. You tell that bartender how proud you are of your kids or how in love you are. You tell that bartender how ticked you are with the government and you give them your point of view on every subject. You leave, you sober up. You don't want your boss to know you hate them. You don't want to look your neighbors in the eye. You don't want your wife or husband to know you lay awake picturing life with someone else. You decide maybe all members of the opposite political party are not stupid. Either way, you didn't take these thoughts to confession- Sweetie, you took your thoughts and feelings to the web weaving internet bartender compiling a tell all story.

Erase what you can. Remove yourself from sites. Stop comments from being posted. Bartender was taking notes while you were taking shots. When he isn't tending bar, he is the conductor of the strongest steam powered search engines. The people can oogle on google or bada the Bing and find the weaved webs of the tales heard once by the bartender.

That post is deleted. Sigh. Relief. No regret. It isn't on a billboard, sure. But, my dears, it is written in this book, like an encyclopedia where all they need is the right name or keywords and every thought, rant, emotion, love, hate, passion, desire, annoyance- in dark ink- will always exist. Forever.

I am not saying to avoid posting the REAL you. I am a strong supporter of the REAL you. Anything less than is a fake version of a liar. And if you aren't true to yourself, you darn sure cannot be true to anyone else. Just remember, if you talk bad about someone, it is there. If you loved someone it is there. If you were once on one side of the fight and switched your point of view, the former thoughts are there forever.

Friendships may crumble. Jobs may switch. Loves may become forbidden, but the fact that at one time in your life, you felt the way you did will always be there. Your grandkids will search you and discover a you they never knew. Your bosses will search you and see what you said about a former boss. Your friends will reconnect with you and always hold resentment that at one point, you trashed them. The lovers of your future will know the lovers of your past. Relationships of any sort, professional or personal- Life situations, personal hells or fated destinies will end. Nothing lasts forever- except what you post about them.

Take a moment and search yourself. Search yourself with random keywords. Search for images. See all the things you have forgotten. One day, your kids and grandkids will want the stories behind these things. One day, they will likely contact the people they find you with on search engines. Do you suddenly feel like a kid hiding a diary?

Some things last forever.

Saturday, March 9, 2013

"Carry" On

Carry on 
Well I woke up to the sound of silence
(these lyrics snagged me. I hate the silence.) 
The cars were cutting like knives in a fist fight 
(reminds me of our song- Chasing Cars)
And I found you with a bottle of wine 
Your head in the curtains 
And heart like the fourth of July 

You swore and said 
We are not 
We are not shining stars 
This I know 
I never said we are 

Though I've never been through hell like that 
I've closed enough windows 
To know you can never look back 

If you're lost and alone 
Or you're sinking like a stone 
Carry on 
May your past be the sound 
Of your feet upon the ground 
Carry on 

Carry on, carry on 

So I met up with some friends 
At the edge of the night 
At a bar off 75 
And we talked and talked 
About how our parents will die 
(and there is no going back to say goodbye)
All our neighbours and wives 

But I like to think 
I can cheat it all 
To make up for the times I've been cheated on 
And it's nice to know 
When I was left for dead 
I was found and now I don't roam these streets 
I am not the ghost you want of me
(a ghost is all you left me to be) 

If you're lost and alone 
Or you're sinking like a stone 
Carry on 
May your past be the sound 
Of your feet upon the ground 
Carry on 

My head is on fire 
(like a ring)
But my legs are fine 
(well not really. I can't walk half the time but you would know that had you kept your promise to be mine,)
Cause after all they are mine 
Lay your clothes down on the floor 
Close the door 
Hold the phone 
Show me how 
No one's ever gonna stop us now 
(the only thing stopping anything is our own free will. No one controls us)

Cause we are 
We are shining stars 
We are invincible 
We are who we are 
On our darkest day 
When we're miles away 
So we'll come 
We will find our way home 

If you're lost and alone 
Or you're sinking like a stone 
Carry on 
May your past be the sound 
Of your feet upon the ground 
Carry on 

Carry on, carry on

So the last post I did, I gained a comment from someone unwilling to post their name. I love stranger comments usually. Hey, I am funny and I have met other funny people through my blog. This was more of an attack of sorts. A) I was wowed and laughed my sweet round arse off at the instant defense of my character by others through comments. Thank you to the lovely people for hopping to and setting the nameless one straight. I wish you could have seen me smile with each comment posted.
B) I did allow the comment to sting me...at first... But then, I do this thing----over thinking.... Something someone pointed out to me about this time last year. But I get the core thoughts when I over think compared to simply reacting to first thoughts. Take this song for example. Change the spelling of the title and I usually say the word won instead of on. Just to beat around the bush, we will say Carry Won- instead of breaking down proper spelling. I am sure that the poster of the rude comment was either her or someone related to her. 
C) I get it. I'm not mad. Ain't nobody got time for that. And when you live a lie, yourself, you want to feel as if everyone else is doing the same injustice to wasting every single breath of air. Sadly, that isn't how it works. They say the truth hurts- but lies hurt more. Living one must be mental hell.
D) The truth is, if my character were as the stranger commented and all was well on the west coast in this blissful relationship- Strangers would not be taking time away from their happy lives to stalk internet blogs and comment on them when not a single hint or mild suggestion point a finger at what person I spoke of. The comment exists because the person knows who I speak of. She likely looks in his eyes everyday to see my reflection aching like a ring of fire. If everyone online can see and feel it, no doubts the person under the same roof can see the pain caused by holding on to what will forever be only physically and legally her own. 
E) My life has changed a lot in the past six months. I have digressed physically, yet evolved emotionally and mentally. To think of how willing I was to drop everything and conform into the life of the O.W. astonishes me. To pick up, move cross country, sell everything and live in a manner in which her current lifestyle would not have been altered. O.W.'s don't often get that deal. They damn sure expire, as this one has. Not saying I would ever trust jumping, adoration falling to be caught- but if I did, it would take place on my terms and on my territory. And even if it never does happen. It will be a longing that dwells deeper than his eyes for eternity. 
So maybe this post does hold a bit more punch and pun. Maybe I can't PIN HER down and make her stare logic and fact in the eyes. But the ring of fire will always burn...burn...burn...
F) Bitter O.W.'s lashing out make the difference between fiction and nonfiction tell alls that make the best seller lists... Maybe I could get a foreword from Hunter about her time with Edwards... Hmmmm. I do have every detail to back up my story- very well documented. I could likely advertise on Coke cans.
G) Carry on is not Carry Won. Nobody won. Like Matchbox 20 said- "Everyone here is thinking 'bout somebody else."
H)BIC- Keep on keepin on. Legend says if you cannot sleep at night, it is because you are in someone's dreams. I have had six months of sleepless nights. 

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Butterfly Poop & Splat!

Bless my heart all over the house, I have totally neglected my personal blog for way too long! Don't worry, this shouldn't be a very lengthy post. (I always say that.) I do apologize for depriving the internet of my detailed rants and endless sarcasm for over a year. I was so caught up in life, I forgot to take a step back and laugh at it. A waste of a good year worth cracking on. Let me explain. Never mind. Too much. Let me sum up. I had my novel published. Becoming a writer is not for the impatient. Well, it is, but now I understand why most of the greats were bitter drunks. Writers create their own worlds in their own time. When you want to share your world of written words, your time doesn't matter. Wait and rush becomes the rinse and repeat of your life. Your editor will crush your soul and you will love them for it because in the end, you look better than you ever would alone. Publishers will have a totally different idea for the outcome of your book but you deal with it, because, well, publishers can be scary and you want your book published. In the end, you get to show off your blood and tears in ebook and trade paperback. You also get to laugh when your four year old kid talks about their favorite author and it is a writer you met on your journey, not you. I fell in love. Yep. Mean ol' me. I went all out for a full blown literary fairy tale. I walked on air, visited cloud nine, hummed and even had butterflies and birds landing on me I was so in love. Yeah. It was sickening. Do butterflies poop? It may be more sickening than I originally estimated. No, but really, it was great. I never allowed my walls down so much. I never trusted so much. I never jumped. Now I have. I was ready for forever. I prayed over it. I swooned. I fell and he promised to catch me- so yeah, I sold most everything I owned and signed a lease across the country and let my kids fall in love with someone as much as I did. It was perfect. I moved. Nope. Not cross country. I said I jumped. I never was spry. I totally fell on my ass with the fairy tale. I am still licking my wounds. Like when someone goes to pull a tablecloth from a full table and you wait for the great magician, but all you get is a bunch of silver and china crashing to the floor. BUT- I do have my own place. It is small and country but it is mine. I do what I want, when I want, how I want....as much as my three kids allow. Okay, so I do what I have to, when I have to, how I have to but don't ruin the illusion of grown up freedom. I am standing on my own two feet, alone. And speaking of feet, when I say standing, I mean that more as an image, not a fact. During my big jump and splat, I got sick. Lots of things on me just began not functioning properly. It progressed quickly and, now, on my second neurologist, I get lots of tests, even a spinal tap to see what is wrong with me. (Like my mother hasn't been trying to figure that out for years. Haha.) I get these shakes, fully body sometimes, just an arm or a leg other times. I started out with numb lips and now my entire body has followed so sometimes, I fall, not in love, just for the hell of it, I guess. It can be entertaining. I laugh. I am sure I look like a donkey on ice skates, numb and shaking and spinning, trying not to fall- but again, splat. I was told with a bit more swagger, I could pull of the numbness and shaking like a pimp walk. I need a fur coat...maybe purple. I swore I would not endorse 2013 with the lack of Dick Clark counting down my final moments, but obviously, the world did not jump on my bandwagon. I was honestly happy to see the end of the year just to stop staring at Fergie and that big dookie ball bun on her head and that metallic dress from a 1986 thrift store. Yeah, I rock my yoga pants and writer sweater most all year, but still, that is better than what is going to go down in history as the Rockin' New Year fashion. Poor Fergie-Ferg. Overall, it may not sound like it, but 2012 was truly one of the best years of my life. I chased dreams. Dreams came true. New plans formed, fell apart, and reformed. I don't really think I have a life plan anymore. Just to live it. Not to live through it, but to be alive. 2012 gave me a lot of that and I want more. Splats and all.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

My Annual Thanksgiving Rant and 10 Things worthy of giving thanks that you DIDN"T post.

I have never been one to pretend to love the Thanksgiving holiday. Don't get me wrong, I am a thankful person, I simply choose to be so more than once a year, and then we get into previous blogs about Native American history and the pilgrims- no worries, I won't repeat myself, but if you ever want to spark a conversation on this topic, message me and I will rant for you.

Let's take a moment to be serious about this holiday. Thanksgiving is a day of cooking more than your crowd could possibly eat- A planned Gluttony. Maybe you go around the table and say one thing you are thankful for. Awwww. How special.

I heard someone say on the radio this past weekend, "What if all you woke up with tomorrow is what you gave thanks for today?"

STOP RIGHT NOW. Think about it.... If everything you did not wake up thankful for this morning vanished, what would you have?

Thanksgiving should not be a special day. It should be everyday.

What else is Thanksgiving? Oh yes, the eve of Black Friday.

Seriously, come on, people. Black Friday? Does it even sound pleasant?
I did attend this grand event, once. Between people willing to stomp all over you for discount priced electronics, and old people willing to pick through your cart or basket to steal what ever deals you found first- EWWW.

What a horrible event. What a black soul, selfish, personal possession greedy, disgusting event!
And sure, I hear the lame line of, "I use it to buy for others. I am on a limited income." Guess what? There is this thing called lay away- and you don't even have to turn into a cruel person full of wrath if you don't get that flat screen or twiddle me Elmo- or what ever that red guy does this year...

So yeah... On another note. I realize while reading everyone's Thanksgiving posts on what they are thankful for that everyone really does post the same thing. We are all thankful for things like family, health, faith, food-

Here are 10 things I will be thankful over for everyone, because life would suck without it.

10. Oxygen. Come on. Obvious. Everything else doesn't matter without it.

9. Duct Tape. Not only does it fix everything (Learned that from my dad) But now, it's part of fashion.

8. Coffee. I personally do not drink coffee often, but thinking about all of the coffee drinkers I know... I would rather face zombies than a coffee drinker that has been cut off.

7. Dental floss. If you don't agree, go eat corn on the cob and come back to this one.

6. The internets. How would anyone under the age of 20 communicate if they lost the internet right now? Could you imagine if we had to sit around and wonder what people from our past are up to? Or having to go into a public place to shop or pay a bill? Wow.

5.Fridge/Freezers... How much food would you have without it?

4. GPS systems. Men won't ask a human for directions, so let's not tell them a human somewhere programmed that little British voice telling them how to get to a place that they guy at the gas station goes to twice a day.

3. Bacon. Bacon is so stinking wonderful, even vegetarians have to have fake bacon.

2. Friends. The people you get to pick to make up for those certain people you wish you weren't related to.

1. Toilet Paper. Deny It.

Happy start of the Holiday Season.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

The scent of an Angel

I know that this blog is normally where I joke, rant, and pun but something happened last night. Something beautiful that I feel the need to share....

While sitting outside on the back deck last night, I had a very special visitor. My mom, my youngest daughter, and I were sitting at the patio table rambling about this and that. The sun had already started to fade into darkness. The night time sounds of the frogs, crickets, neighbor's dogs, and local traffic provided the classic summer sounds of normality. Then it happened.

This smell. It hit me- smack in the face. A sweet scent of a familiar comfortableness that seemed replaced by a void of blankness for some time. I knew that smell. I knew it like I know the sound of my own voice. I inhaled harder and harder taking it in as every single hair along my arms and the back of my neck stood at attention.

"Do you smell that?" I said to my mother, in between my deep inhaling of the sweet aroma.

She shook her head and gave me a bit of a look as if I were crazy. In an instant the smell was gone. Not even a lingering afterthought left behind.

We went about our conversation and I simply disregarded the scent as something I wanted to smell, not an actual happening. The memory can be a fickle instrument of illusions when it comes to matters of the heart.

A few moments later, my nostrils almost burnt with the smell coming so strong again, yet so sweetly. Sniffing and sniffing, I tried to chase down the source of the smell like a hunting dog. Though, as swiftly as it returned it was gone.

I looked at my mom. Puzzled at the hunt for this mystery scent, she smiled.
"You don't smell it do you?" I asked as my eyes flooded with tears, half out of placing the exact memory of that scent and half for fear that my mother was starting to think that I finally teetered over that thin line between sanity and insanity.

Just as the tears began to trickle down the sides of my cheeks, my mother- her eyes widened, her back stiffened, and she too- SHE was inhaling the sweet smell just as I was. This time, the scent stayed- strong and lovely- like our guest was sitting in the empty seat between us.

That isn't all. Life went silent. No sounds of frogs, crickets, or dogs. Traffic noise did not exist. A low flying plane coming into the airport coasted just above the trees, silently. The only sounds were our own voices and our sniffing.

"I smell her." My mom said.

She didn't say it or that...she said her.

"I'm not crazy." I laughed. "What does it smell like?"
"Like her. Just like her" mom replied as she continued to inhale.
"Avon and baby wipes." I laughed.
We both breathed in her scent as our face flooded with tears.

"Hey Mama." My mom beamed."

I said nothing. Not a word to her. I knew she was there. My long lost best friend. My dearest, sweetest grandmother.

And in a snap... It was gone. No lingering smell to trace. And the noise of the world returned just as before- as if someone had un-muted life...But this time, the sounds of birds- all sorts of birds circled around us- will the sun now down fully. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck slowly returned to normal as we chases the scent- Sniffing flowers, our clothing, linen hanging over the rails of the deck to dry. The smell was gone- not on anything. Of course it wasn't. That smell only graced one human in that way.

Inside, where my youngest was napping in the living room- the spot beside him was cool.. It wasn't even cool- It was cold- but in an unusual warm, comfortable way. I have no words for the feeling of that spot. Not a vent nor window near it. As my husband said, a good 20 degrees cooler in that one spot than just a foot away. I just stood there, in this haze of coolness. The hair along my arms raised again. I felt more relaxed standing in that one spot than I have in months. I stayed there until the feel left- as fleeting as it had on the back deck.

Not a soul in this house doubt that my grandmother came for a visit, but why? My mom says it was just a visit. A reminder that she is still here for us. But one thing that I surely got from my grandmother is always having something to say. That was the strongest connection that I have ever felt to someone that has left me- passed on- I do not think she would have made it so very obvious that she was around as a casual "hello".

The coldness inside, near my sleeping son- happened to be right in front of one of the china cabinets. The one holding the most memories of her. The coldest spot was where, inside the glass, is a photo of her own parents- My great-grandparents. I picked it up. I honestly even sniffed it to see if it also smelled like her. It didn't.

But even if my thick head never figures out the meaning of her visit, I could smell her. She knew how much that meant to me.

When my father passed away, I kept a shirt of his- one that he wore often. I placed it inside of a ziplock bag and safely tucked it into an empty shelf in my dresser. Often, I would run to the bag and open it just long enough to smell my dad. Especially on holidays or when I felt like I really needed him. Eventually, time had passed and it seemed I had to have the shirt to remind me of that exact smell that no one in the world had besides my dad. I suppose I ran to that shirt a bit too much. One day, I opened the bag to sniff- and it only smelled like a shirt. Just a plain normal tshirt. There was no lingering scent of my dad. And just like that, I couldn't recall a bit of that smell. I knew what shampoo he used, his cologne, even his tooth paste, but all of those together, they still didn't smell like him. Every person has their own scent. And if you love someone- it is a sweet scent that could never be duplicated. When I lost my father's scent for good. I called her. I called my grandmother.

I cried my eyeballs out-and just rambled.... and she let me. I'm sure that she thought I was silly for being so frantic over the scent of a man that had been gone for two years but......

Oh my <3....

I do ramble... Don't I??? I suppose I simply can not think without rambling. I get it... I get it now. Thanks blog for letting me ramble- and thanks to my grandmother for making me ramble. It all makes sense. Right now- as I write these very words.

God Bless that woman. My sweet grandmother.
Anne Oxendine Sigmon Godwin
Jan 31, 1932- May 26, 2009

Two years and I can still smell your scent.

Thank you... <3