Showing posts with label Life's Funny Business. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life's Funny Business. Show all posts

3.09.2017

Crushed Nuts


What is the deal with all these men age 35 and under with theses tight ass suit pants ?  

What. The. Hell.  

It's the same look over and over - blue suit, light blue shirt (like a chambray color), a narrow tie, brown shoes and funky socks of some kind.  It's not terrible, but some of them are wearing their pants entirely too tight.   

Nut huggers is what they'd be called where I'm from.  I really don't know how comfortable that can be.  Or how you’re affecting your future reproductive prospects.  Or why in the hell some of the pants are not only tight, but high-waters as well.   If your pants hit an inch above your ankle, they are capris.  

Here's a Cliff Note: Capris are not pants that are made for dudes.

I understand the premise of current fashion, I just don’t understand why you’d want to walk around like your nuts are in a vice.  Don’t they need to breathe?

3.02.2017

On Armageddon



I’m not trying to shit on anyone’s religion.  Really, I’m not.  

There’s just one thing I cannot wrap my head around:  If an imminent date has been identified as the start of the rapture, why would you then give all of your material possessions away?  

I’m serious.  

This happened during Y2K and then again a few years ago . Again, in response, people gave all their stuff away.  This last time we were driving Lorren to a Tae Kwon Do tourney and a news story on the radio came on about "today" being the day.  
I was thinking how pissed off I was going to be if this indeed my last day on earth and I was spending it in a sweaty gym watch preteens try and beat the shit out of each other. 

But I digress...

These folks are giving away good shit, like TVs and speedboats and cars.  The whole thing defies logic.  If the world is going to end, then your neighbor won’t be able to use your flat screen either.  

Think it through, people.  

Enjoy your toys until the bitter end. 

2.23.2017

A Small Rant


I don’t give a fuck about traffic, but every single day it seems like someone insists on talking about it. With me. 

Here is a recent conversation:

Them:  Did you ride the bus last Friday?
Me:  Ummm…yeah.
Them:  Did your bus take Freeway A or Freeway B?
Me: I don’t know, I was asleep.
Them:  Well they closed Exit X on Freeway B.  Traffic was horrible.
Me: Ummm…ok.

What am I supposed to do with that information? Who gives a fuck about traffic that happened in the fucking past?  I explained that I was asleep.  This isn’t the first time I’ve explained to this person that I either sleep or read on the bus.  I wouldn't know if the bus driver took surface streets or hitched a ride in the back of a semi like we were fucking Knight Rider.  Besides, traffic is the bus driver’s problem.  That’s why I pay for a bus pass - to be able to let go of bullshit like traffic.  Being aware of it or fretting over it changes absolutely nothing.  When I drive, then traffic is my problem, but I still don’t want to talk about traffic that happened days ago. 

What I’m simply saying is that you don’t have to fill silence with chatter.  If we find ourselves in the same place at the same time silence is perfectly acceptable.   Acting otherwise only does us both a disservice.   It makes you sound inane and I get a headache trying to hold a passive expression on my face instead of it morphing into one where I’m looking at you like I don’t understand why you are fucking talking.  




2.16.2017

I'm Clearly Dying

I’m pretty sure I think about dying too much. 

Ballpark estimate? 20 times a day.  

I'm not even sure why. 

Sometimes, I get these ‘pulse’ headaches - like in my temple.  There isn't any pain, just a slight pressure, for less than 5 seconds; however, in that moment, I am absolutely certain that I’m going to have a stroke and die.  

A few months back, I was having heart palpitations. Regularly.  I went to my doctor several times.  All kinds of tests run - blood, urine, x-rays.  More than once.  Apparently all my blood work, etc. is fine.  She thinks it’s stress.  I’m dying and she’s insisting that all these episodes are stress related.  I’m not sure I entirely believe her.  Even though my palpitations have stopped since I started meditating 2 months ago.  That’s just a huge coincidence.  The heart attack is still coming.

I sometimes imagine my commuter bus careening off of the side of the highway.  Me and the other 30-odd passengers being tossed around like rag dolls, breaking every bone in my body.  Buses don’t have seat belts.  I’m guessing it would take them at least 24 hours to find us, especially as it gets dark and we’re at the bottom of a 40 foot drop. I'm going to slowly bleed out from the bones jutting out of my body.


Less frequently, but still as frightening, I imagine myself waking up and finding a strange man standing over me.  He's going to do unspeakable things to me before choking me to death.  Yep, good times. 

Why am I letting my crazy leak out?  Again, no freakin' idea.  I just know that I feel a little bit better.

This is going to sound strange, but I don't actively fear death.  I like to use these thoughts as a way to help me appreciate whatever life I have left - even when they come to me completely unbidden. 

Maybe from now on I'll try to imagine myself peacefully passing away in my sleep...

1.12.2017

Goodbye Facebook

Dear Facebook,

I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to quit you.  For good, this time.  

It’s not you, it’s me.  

This is precipitated by that consistently nauseated feeling I get when I think of you and all those useless, insipid posts that people put up.  When I think yet again that I need to pare down my friends list to people I actually consider friends and/or people that will not repeatedly invite me to join them to play your stupid games.  I can’t figure out if they keep inviting me because they assume I made a mistake when I hit the decline button, or if the grand plan is to wear me down. 

I really detest posts like “8 Ways To Know if You Have a Real Man” or “Repost if you Love The Lord/Your Grandchildren/Your Dogs”.    If you need Facebook to tell you whether or not you’re in a relationship with a man or an overgrown child, then you have more problems than eight bullet points can address.  Those repost request are always for the most absurd shit.  Why do I need to declare my feelings for the rest of Facebook?  The religious ones seem to consistently have some shaming element to them, often with a veiled threat.  You don’t think so?  I actually saw one where it reminded people that they don’t want the Lord to be ashamed of them on judgement day…so they shouldn’t deny him on Facebook.  Really?  What a crock of holy shit.   Besides, Jesus is on Twitter. He won’t see the post. 

I don’t have the urge to post personal things anymore.   I don’t want people to know where I spent Christmas or how drunk I was for New Years - all anyone needs to know is that it wasn’t as drunk I as would've liked.   You’re right, I did post the photos from our family trip to New York.  That was just a few months ago in October.  My heart wasn’t really in it.  I’d finally taken the opportunity to use the photo editing software on my computer and I loved the results.  That’s really what I wanted to share - my newfound photo editing skills, not much else.

The obvious answer to all of the issues I have is to ignore them, right?  Just get on, see what I like and then get off.  I have been doing that for the last year, but still being on Facebook feels like I’m contributing to the problem - like those people who slow down to look at a wreck on the freeway and only cause traffic.

I do like seeing photos of the babies in my family - especially since I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like, but maybe our breakup will be the push I need to keep in touch with them in the real world, where I can snuggle and play with them.

I know my one small withdrawal from your world won’t really make one damn bit of difference.  You have millions upon millions of users and won’t shed a single tear over my exit.  But we’ve had a long relationship and some good times.  It seemed wrong to simply disappear without a word. 

Maybe when the world gets a little less crazy - or I start making ‘friends’ with less crazy people, I’ll come back.

Take care,

Shayla









4.18.2016

The Don’t Be Stupid Guide To Winning At Work


  1. If you are sitting in the seat, do the work.
  2. Learn the rules and processes BEFORE you decide that you fundamentally disagree and are going to do it differently.  Check to make sure the processes don’t have any roots in regulatory (read: legal)  requirements before you launch your sit-in.
  3. Do not obsess over and escalate trivial shit.
  4. Learn to discern what constitutes trivial shit.
  5. Snitches get stitches.  Whistle blowers get movies made about their lives.  If it’s not worthy of a movie of the week, keep your pie hole shut and mind your own business. 
  6. There is no ‘right to privacy’ on a work computer or phone.  None.  Expecting anything else is ill-advised. 
  7. If you think something could be done better, don’t complain.  Offer a fucking solution.  If you can’t think of one, shut the hell up until you do. 
  8. Try to solve your own problem before asking for help.  Your own brain should be the first stop, then outside sources.
  9. Leave things the way you found them.  If you found them fucked up, leave them better than you found them.  Specifically, don't just walk away when you flood the bathroom toilet.
  10. Don’t be the asshole that knows that the coffee machine or copier is busted, but won’t put a note on the thing saying so, or call the folks that will help un-fuck it up.  

12.03.2015

Shayla: Established 1975


In Honor of my 40th birthday…40 Lessons I’ve Learned:

  1. Life is not a linear path.   You’ll go from A to F then back to C and then to M and plenty of stops in Shit Town in between. 
  2. Adapt or die.  Change is a guarantee, whether you like it or not.  Resistance will be painful.
  3. You are the star of your own life.  Like with a movie, that means you carry the load for pushing the story forward.  You don’t get to blame the extras.
  4. Regrets are a nasty, toxic pill to swallow.  If you can possibly avoid them, that would be best.  Second best would be learning from them. 
  5. Your life isn’t a rehearsal.  The cameras are rolling now, so get to it.
  6. You can learn something from everyone, even if it’s what not to do.
  7. Things in life are only what you say they are.  If you think it’s important, it is.  If you assign a value of importance to trivial shit, you are going to be unhappy.
  8. It’s not your job to fix other people.  Other people always seem like a fun project.  They’re really a distraction from your own problems.  Fix yourself. That’s hard enough.
  9. Don’t make excuses.  Apologize, yes, but unless you are actually calling from a hospital, no one gives a shit why you didn’t do whatever it was you were supposed to do.  Just fucking do it. 
  10. Be grateful.  Express gratitude to your friends and family for their presence and whatever deity you believe in for your good fortune.  Be glad to be alive.  It makes everything better when you focus on what you do have, as opposed to what you don’t.
  11. Scare the shit out of yourself regularly.  Get out of your comfort zone and push yourself - mentally, physically and emotionally.  It’ll keep you from going soft.  Literally and figuratively.
  12. Be mindful of your fears.  The thing that’s pervasive about aging is an increase in the number and nature of one’s fears.  As you recognize your own mortality, you start to retreat from things - driving at night, new technology, unfamiliar places.  It’s a slow creep, but before you know it, you’re a shut-in that gets her groceries delivered.  Be vigilant.
  13. Be of service.  Volunteer at a shelter, clean up graffiti in your community, do something.  Don’t wait for someone else to make things better.   
  14. Be self aware. Regularly assess yourself and be honest.  If you like 100% of what you find, well good on you.  If you don’t, then see #8.
  15. Nothing is permanent. Whether it’s fucked up for you right now or you’re queen of the world, it’s all transient. This too shall pass.
  16. Your worth as a person has nothing to do with what you drive, wear or how much money you have in the bank.  It can feel that way (based on the value you assign to material things), but predicating your self worth on that is like building your house on top of a cloud.  A piece of shit in a Lamborghini is still a piece of shit.
  17. The person you have the most friction with in your life probably exhibits the same personality traits as you. Seriously.  Check it out.  
  18. Not everything is about you.  Sometimes, other people’s reactions have nothing to do with you.  You’re the star of your life, not of theirs. 
  19. If you want your teeth, you should act like it. Brush, floss and go to the dentist regularly.  
  20. If you don’t have the money, don’t buy it.  There’s no worse feeling than paying for shit you did or ate three years ago.  
  21. Corollary to #20: Don’t spend money before you get it.  That’s bonus, tax refund or inheritance.  If it’s not in your hot little hands, it isn’t guaranteed.
  22. Don’t be a shit disturber. Mind your own business. Stay of out of the fray, whether it’s at work or your family. No good can come from it.  Trust me. 
  23. Insecurity is a waste of time.  The mere fact that the right egg and sperm met at just the perfect time to make you is evidence that you are meant to be here.  Whatever you think you’re missing (too tall, short, dark, fat), it’s what you’ve agreed to in your own mind.  Your mind can be changed.   
  24. Time is the only resource you own that cannot be replenished.  You can make more money, you can get more things, but once time is gone…that’s it.  
  25. Friends are the family we pick for ourselves.  Choose wisely.  Not everyone deserves a front row seat in our lives. 
  26. There’s never a perfect time to get married, have a baby or buy a house.  If you want to do those things, do them.  Just don’t do them for someone else.
  27. Be yourself - whomever that is. It's an oft repeated phrase, but it’s true.  People gravitate toward authenticity. Don’t be a second rate somebody else.
  28. A pity party should only last 72 hours - at the most.  Any longer than that is just pitiful and you’re definitely headed to Whineyville. 
  29. Be here now.  Wherever that is.  Don’t use your fucking phone when you’re eating with other people.  Just be with them, enjoy them.  Listen to what’s being said instead of thinking about what you have to do next.  Breathe. 
  30. Hard work isn’t a montage in a movie.  It’s not entertaining and it won’t only take 5 minutes.  It can be boring and tedious, but if you do it right, it will take you to the next level.  
  31. Watch what people do, not what they say.  Words are the easiest thing to throw around.  If someone shows you with their actions that they’re an uncaring, self-absorbed asshole, believe them.
  32. Give people their flowers while they’re still living. Don’t wait to tell the people in your life how you feel about them.   If you wait too long, then you’ll have to deal with #4.
  33. Only marry someone you do not want to change.   Whomever they are, right now, if you don’t like them, walk away.  It will be no different 5 years from now.
  34. There is never better than here.  There has its own set of problems.  It only looks more fun.
  35. If you feel the need to impress someone, impress yourself.  
  36. Always listen to your gut, no questions asked.  Don’t try to reason with it and for the love of all that is holy, don’t ignore it.  You will be sorry if you do. 
  37. I don’t care if it’s your dream job or not, if you’re sitting in the seat, do the work.  Do it as if it’s your calling, as if your life depends on it.  You do that and you won’t have to ask for more, it will find you. 
  38. Your actions are always the best indicator of what you really think is important.
  39. Resilience is the secret to life.  In life, you can throw as many punches as you want, but if you’ve got a glass jaw, all life has to do is throw one punch and you’re done. 
  40. Laugh every day.  Laugh at yourself.  Laugh at the crazy situations you find yourself in.  Don’t take it so seriously.  You do really only ride this ride once. Have fun.

11.15.2015

XL

I’m weeks’ away from turning 40.  I’ve been thinking about the last 20 years, about myself at 20 and my life looks a lot different that I thought it would:

  1. I’ve spent most of this time living in the US.  At one time, I envisioned living in country after country, one year at a time, starting in England and moving across Europe.  
  2. I’ve now been married twice.  I wasn’t getting married. Ever. I didn't know that marriage could be an awesome partnership until I married the right guy.  I didn’t realize that it was a relationship that would make me grow and sustain me when that growth became disconcerting.
  3. I have two kids.  I didn’t like children (I still really don’t).   Despite that little factoid, I know I am a better person for having been a mother.  My children are two of the most interesting people I’ve ever met (when they aren’t being teenage assholes). 
  4. I don’t care that much about money anymore.  Since I was a teenager, I spent a lot of time wanting to be a millionaire - and making plans to do so.  I thought that was a way to my happiness.  Life has shown me otherwise.  
    1. To the deities that control the lottery: I would not object to coming into possession of the next big Powerball jackpot, but now I wouldn’t be a complete douche nozzle, just the one I already am.
  5. I thought owning a home would be some kind of end-all-be-all experience.  It’s pretty cool, but the bank owns my home and I’m paying the bank - for 30 years. It’s not a terrible way to go, but I didn’t think to question the wisdom of the American Dream.  
  6. I gave more of a shit about the material.  I wanted nice stuff. I wanted a lot of it.  I used to look at it longingly because I couldn’t afford it.  Now I can and I just can’t bring myself to care.  My new life goal is to live in a place that takes 10 minutes to clean.  One day I’ll be able to fit everything I own could fit inside a good sized duffel bag and backpack.  I’m starting to really see that I don’t need as much as I thought I did to be happy.
  7. I gave more of a shit about what other people thought. I’m so glad to have let this one go. I wanted people to understand me.  I wanted people to like me. Now?  Eh. This is me. Take it or leave it. 
  8. I used to be more excitable.  Like with 6 & 7, the longer I stay on this planet, the smaller the circle of things that actually get my hackles up.   I wanted the world to bend to my will.  Finally got it through my skull:  the world don’t work that way.  I can only control myself.  If it’s not up to me, I don’t worry about it.  
  9. I was always over-thinking things. I don’t do that as much (although still too much for where I’m trying to go).  Thinking and over-thinking.  Considering and imagining.  Reading about it first, figuring it all out first, right?  Fuck no.  Life is action. Life is doing.  I’m not a completely lazy git, but I’m self aware enough to know that I have spent far too much time in contemplation. 
  10. I didn’t know I was an introvert.  I thought introvert meant shy.  Nope.  It means I get my recharge from solitude, not from interaction with others.  I love being alone.  My mother, in her infinite extroverty wisdom, would explain my strangeness by saying I “marched to the beat of a different drummer”. I assumed it was code for ‘weirdo’. I’m more than good with that, especially if keeps me from having to engage in small talk. Anywhere.  I'd rather give myself an abortion with a knitting needle. 
  11. I don’t know if there’s a number eleven.  Suffice it to say that my 20 year old self would not recognize our life today.  She might even be asking what the fuck I did to us (profanity was always there - 20, 40, 60 - it won’t matter), but I’d take her to Starbucks and we’d have a chat.  I think she’d understand.

10.14.2014

Regret-A-Porter



I feel kind of silly talking about style on this blog.  I would not consider myself to be a stylish person.

My mother, bless her heart, would constantly lament that I tended to wear the same things over and over, like I was some kind of fashion deviant.  This is what I was doing at 9, 10 years old.  I knew what I liked, I knew what made me feel good and that’s what I wanted to wear – even it was the same pair of jeans 2 or three days in a row.  That really bothered her and I’m sure she thought it was a waste of the other clothes hanging in my closet, waiting for their chance to see the light of day.  She wasn't wrong, but you like what you like, right?

This conversation between us about clothes continued until my adulthood and her comments would be basically the same:  There was not enough variety in my wardrobe.  She once asked me how many pairs of shoes I owned.  When I told her the number (I think it was about 5 or 6), with the look on her face, you would've thought I told her I knew where Jimmy Hoffa was buried.   She insisted I needed more shoes.  I don’t think I every really got her to articulate (at least to my satisfaction) why more shoes were necessary, but if you love your mama as I do, sometimes you just say OK and buy more shoes.

At the end of last year, I read this book, Lessons from Madame Chic, and I started to realize that I had more of a French sensibility when it came to clothes.  According to this book, for the French, it’s more about quality, not quantity.  There is no issue with wearing the same pieces over and over – even multiple times in the same week.  The trick is having a neutral palette, that way you can mix and match items.  It was like the anti-bible to my mother’s fashion rules, but completely fit in with what was already in my heart.  It made my longing to have an all black wardrobe seem not so far-fetched.   Color is cool, but an all black wardrobe seems means you no longer have to think about it.  I can spend my time on other things, things that are much more important to my soul than my wardrobe.  

Shit, if it was good enough for Johnny Cash, then it’s good enough for me.

Before the book, I thought that I’d come to terms with the fact that I wasn't ever going to be a fashionista.  I really don’t like to go to stores and shop.  I've had enough epic shopping trips with my mom and my nana to know that it’s really not my bag.  I buy most things online and have enough follow through to send something back if it doesn't fit.  Honestly, I didn't really see the lure; my mother has four closets in her house filled with clothes and I've often heard her complain about having nothing to wear (or nothing fitting).

I think of her closet like the menu for Jerry’s Famous Deli.  Have you seen that thing?  It’s like 20 fucking pages long.  I’m a pretty decisive person when it comes to food, but the waitress had to come back twice before I was ready to place my order and I still ended up with something I didn't like only because I felt the need to just order anything so I wasn't holding up my dinner companions any longer.  There were too many choices.

My closet is closer to In-N-Out.  They only do burgers, so it’s more a matter of what kind of burger do you want.  There are no nuggets, there are no salads, and there are no chicken sandwiches.  It makes your choice easy.  There are only so many combinations to be had.  In fact, I now relish the idea of having a uniform of sorts  - which apparently is also the philosophy of Emmanuelle Alt, the Editor-in-Chief of Vogue Paris.  Go figure.

As it turns out, I like clothes.  A lot.  Especially clothes that are well made.  I enjoy the art that is haute couture.  I just don’t need every piece that was ever made in my closet.  I don’t need 200 pairs of shoes.  I can appreciate them on the rack or on the pages of a fashion magazine or on the catwalk.


I just don’t have to own them.  

5.10.2014

Sorry, This Spot's Already Taken


Do you ever look at someone else and think, “that’s what I want to be.”?  

I do.

Do they just seem so much more intriguing and interesting than you could ever hope to be?  

Yes and double yes. 

A few times a year, I’ll become really taken with someone and literally think – I want to be that. I want to be them.  Man or woman, it really doesn't matter. 

I devour on-line articles.  I don’t know how many I actually read in a year, but it’s a lot. Sometimes I come across articles about people that make me feel less than, like I've somehow wasted the time I've been blessed with.  James Franco comes to mind.  This guy writes, directs, teaches classes (apparently on both coasts), is enrolled in about 12 separate grad schools and still manages to acts in films he didn't write – and oh yes, he’s an author.

What the fuck?  What am I doing with myself???  I don’t give a shit if you don’t like him or his movies or his books, that’s pretty impressive, right?

For a couple of days (or maybe more – I’m not at liberty to say), I was mildly depressed.  Here I am, trying to bang out one fucking short. One fucking short – a 25 minute film.  It feels like it’s taking forever. FOREVER.  I’m not satisfied with my ending, I don’t know if it’s conveying my intention properly, I don’t know if I want to subject other people – actors, viewers, etc. to my emotional drivel. 

I’d imagine that if I was James Franco, I’d have finished it two years ago, shot it, edited and put it out last summer and would be happily onto the next 7 things.  The entire thing feels quite fucked up, I have to tell you.

I didn't explain it to my husband in quite this graphic detail.  I just kept telling him that I didn't think I was really smart enough to be a writer or to make films.  That perhaps I was missing that essential component – whatever that was, ‘cause fuck if I know.

Anyway, as my husband and my best friend and as the consummate artist, he assured me that I did indeed have what it takes.  He said that my voice, my expression, is unique and it would be something that people would (and do) respond to.  

God, sometimes that man is my lighthouse – showing me where the shore is – bringing me home.

I see now that the whole “James Franco Episode” was simply a cop out.  As exhilarating as writing is for me, it’s still scary as shit.  At times it leaves me feeling like I've touched a live wire.  There are times that I actively run from it; I watch TV or read a book instead of sitting in front a blank page, waiting for the voices to speak to me.

Wishing I were someone else (Franco’s just one example, believe me there are others), just meant that I could focus on what I perceive as my shortcomings.  One of them being the fact that unlike James Franco, I actually have to sleep.  I resent the hell out of that.  Even when I try to deny the truth and stay up, it’s pretty ineffective.  I produce shit during my sleepy sleepy times – I might as well be in bed. 

In the eye of the shit storm pity party, I have to remind myself what I’ve told all of you that read Brick Sandwich:  

I AM ENOUGH.  

I have to, otherwise I get caught in the undertow of self-loathing and doubt and I’m still not getting my shit done.  I have to repeat it like the mantra it is.  I have to remind myself that I can’t be James Franco.  His spot’s already taken.  I can only be Shayla Height.  Period.  No matter how sub par that can seem in comparison, it’s still a pretty good gig – and who knows more about being Shayla than me?

This mini-confessional’s purpose is pretty singular:  to let you know that you are not alone.

To the people that know me personally, I’m sure I come across as self-assured, self-possessed and confident – and I am. But, even I have my doubts.  I’m not immune to shitty feelings, I’m not impervious to the bad voices – the ones that constantly questions my choices, my lifestyle, my sanity.  I’m no different than anyone else.  I just try my damnedest not to let those voices have a majority stake in my psyche.  

If I did, I’d probably never open my mouth.  I’d give too much credence to what other people think and I’m sure I’d be really, really, really hating my life right now.

Enough of this shit.  I have to get back to my writing.


3.13.2014

Perhaps I'll get to The Point...In Another Post

You want to know what hell is?  Not being able to be yourself.  Your real self. 

Maybe that’s why I’m such a fervent supporter of gay rights.    Not just for the obvious reasons, but having to hide or made to feel ashamed of who you love and who you are seems like an unending torment.  I can’t stand that feeling for myself and I can’t stand it for anyone else.

Besides, I fucking abhor prejudice.  But a well-placed, off-color joke…that I love!

Then I was reminded that every-fucking-body is prejudiced.  Every. Body. 

One of my beloved friends who happens to belong to the pink triangle brigade said, “Bisexuals? It’s like they can’t make up their mind!” 

What the fuck.

Seriously? 

Bisexuals are the odd man out?

Anyway…

When I stand in line, anywhere, I do my damnest not to make eye contact.

It invites conversation – usually banal small talk.  I hate that shit.  I also have a strong dislike for people that fucking state the obvious just to get a conversation going: “It is so cold!” or “Oh my God, it is sooooo windy out here.”  Yes, thank you. I know. I’m in the shit too.  I don’t want to talk about the fucking weather.  I don’t want a glimpse into your reasons for being in this particular line at this particular time.  I’ve noticed that most people can’t even handle the nod of acknowledgement.  A nod is like an engraved invitation into a fucking conversation. 

I just want to stand here and be alone with my thoughts or read my book or listen to my music.  It’s like people can’t handle silence. 

Maybe they can’t handle the voices in their heads. 

I can.

Good night.

1.29.2014

Parenting 110


You know, being a parent isn’t always like a scene from Evil Dead.   

Sometimes there are good surprises, like when I was playing my iPhone in the car and my 15 year old son was actually impressed that I had Childish Gambino on my playlist - that I even knew who he was.  For a few minutes, I was cool. 

Sometimes I hit the jackpot and get more than one of these minor miracles in a 30 day period.

This week, my 14 year old daughter cooked dinner:  Fettuccine Alfredo with peas & sliced tomato mixed in, Caesar salad and garlic knots.  

It was delicious and I can’t even begin to describe the wave of relief that I felt in not having to pretend I liked it. 

Teenagers might just be okay.  For now.

1.17.2014

Parenting 109


I love my darlings. Both of them.

However, I'd elect to have all my teeth and fingernails pulled out with rusty needle nose pliers rather than have any more.

Too harsh?

I have two teenagers. Fuck you. 


1.16.2014

The Lottery


Many of us are hoping to win.  

I count myself among the many – even when I don’t play, I still want to win.

If it ever happens, I’m going to spend the first two weeks walking around with a sprig of mistletoe hanging over my ass.  Maybe a month. I think that’ll send the right message to most people and I won’t have to strain my voice repeating the same thing over and over.  Pretty classy, huh?

Now that I've shared my lotto rage fantasy, it might be time to think about this in a different way. 

Maybe we've already won.

I don’t have the statistics on how many millions of sperm are released during la petite mort, but I’m guessing that the odds of that right one finding your mom’s egg to make the unique expression of the sublime that is you have the same astronomical odds as hitting all six numbers in the next Mega Millions jackpot. 

Maybe we can put one in the ‘win’ column.

We've gotta stop waiting for the gift we've already been given.   Just get on with it.  Pinning our life’s hopes on a lotto win is about as sane as crying about being hungry when you have a juicy, sizzling steak dinner sitting right in front of you. 

You look like a crazy, blind ingrate with sinus issues – since not only can’t you see the steak, you apparently can’t smell it either.

I’m sure I’ll play the lottery again, but maybe this year I’ll lower the dollar threshold so I can actually get to make my little mistletoe accessory. 


Twenty dollars sounds like a nice round number. 

12.05.2013

If I Scratch My Head Any Harder...I Might Make A Hole


Back story:  My daughter hurt her knee.  She was in enough pain to warrant using my knee brace.  She asked me, begged really, to write her a note for P.E., so she wouldn’t have to run.  I agreed and wrote the note.  I also should share that I’ve been experiencing some issues with focus.  I kept ending up down the rabbit hole, damn emails, web news and the like.  I really, really, really had to keep bringing myself back to writing this damn note - like steering a semi without power steering.  Anyway, I completed my task and left the note on the kitchen table.   

Fast forward to the next day, the next evening really.  I call home every night just to let Ray know I’m getting on my bus.  Lorren picks up the phone:

Me: Hey Baby!

Lorren: Hi Mom, how was your day?

Me:  It was OK.  I’m on the bus.  Tell Daddy, OK?

Lorren: OK. I will.

Me:  How was your day?  How was gym?  Did your teacher let you sit it out?

Lorren: Um no, well. I didn't have to do anything.

Me: So, the note was OK?

Lorren: I didn't have the note.

Me: What do you mean? I left it for you on the kitchen table.

Lorren: I know, but I couldn't find it by the time I got to gym.

(Gym is her last period).

Me:  The teacher let you sit out, without a note?

Lorren:  She said I could bring her a note tomorrow.


Holy shit.  I have to write another note!?!?

Later that same night. I tell Ray this story.  He saw her put the note in her pocket.