Sirens

It’s that time of year again-it’s always ‘that time of year.’  No matter how you slice and dice it?  There will always be a birthday/holiday/death day around the corner, so why not hunker down and take the blows, feel the feels as they come?

It’s better, as the years have gone on: my grieving my father’s death.  I was always connected to my dad, two peas in a pod living with three jalapenos-taking solace in each other.  We each had a sardonic wit, and delighted in the same human absurdities via the tele.  Many a night I would come home late from a date, and find my precious father waiting up for me.  Oh, he never admitted it, but I know darn well he wasn’t just watching Lassie at 2 a.m.

I remember one particular evening, I walked in on an extremely relieved father watching The Shining.  I sat down at his request and watched the entire film, literally shaking in the marrow of my bone.  I was frightened to the point of hysteria, but I could do anything with my dad sitting next to me.  It was only a few moments later, while up in my bedroom reading-that my father opened my bedroom door.  Odd.

Yes, dad?

“Redrum.  Redrum.  Redrum,”  I heard his stifled laughter as he closed his bedroom door.

It was a very long evening.

In other news, I’ve been listening to Nina Simone, Inez and Amy Winehouse all this Sunday afternoon.  You know what that means, right?

Kristen Wiig February 14 Is For Lovers GIF by Saturday Night Live - Find & Share on GIPHY

Nope.  The exact opposite.  Why do women listen to the likes of Adele and Amy when their hearts are shattered into a millions pieces?  Call 911?  No silly, we listen to the Sirens-the women who are mythical in their falsettos, cries for mercy, piercing courage.  We listen to these women because we are these women, without the talent.  Speaking for myself of course.  We listen because when our hearts have been served cold, on a silver platter for the world to see?

We want vengeance.  And we’re not taking your crap, not no more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s the Rub…

This blog is killing two birds with one stone. In all of the hustle and bustle, I completely spaced New Music Thursdays! Not important in the grand scheme of things, but hearing Norah Jones through “new ears,” not once-but twice in one weekend initiated a foray into her unique, jazzy, vintage sound.

I had always linked this tune with roads untaken. As much as my addictions took years from my life-my social anxiety has robbed me of much, much more. I find it ironic that getting sober brought on a new list of phobias and nervous ticks – I pick at my skin when anxious, am completely incapable of dealing with any kind of stress, and would rather have a root canal than travel sans Jesse, my golden retriver. I am a germ phobe extraordinaire, a dog hypochondriac and feel uncomfortable (make that extremely uncomfortable) around people I do not know.

1450868_670242899675796_1120820745_n Jesse, to the left. Our beloved Dylan to the right of our son-may He await me at the Rainbow Bridge

What we regret in our lives is never as painful as chances, opportunities not taken. With Social Anxiety, you are forced to cancel plans depending upon just how strong you feel on that particular day. Interestingly enough, my nerves are their worst in the evening, which I attribute to the notion that I am not fully awake for the first four hours after rising. If you want to give me bad news, do so as the sun rises-with any luck? I won’t remember what you said by noon.

I was completely uninhibited as a child-thinking nothing of knocking on doors, asking the neighbors to bake me cookies. I had a sense of myself from very early on, and as a young girl, my father doted on my propensity to not take crap from any person, place or inanimate object. I learned quickly that pleasing dad meant everything. I yearned to make him proud, he was a nurturing father to me, despite many less than ideal situations; such as, my mother-who was pathologically jealous of our closeness. And herein lies the rub:

In your formative years, you have nothing but the reactions of others to mold and guide you in your very human quest to be loved, to fit in. When your own mother dislikes you? Well, let’s just say I was at an extreme disadvantage. Later in life, Satan’s Seed (aka, my sister)did not miss an opportunity to berate, humiliate or gaslight me-I sunk further into depression.

There is hope and I am here to say things are so much better on the other side of recovery from narcissistic abuse. You begin to see the very things the narc disliked about you (pure and total jealousy) are the very same things that others will love. I did my research, and once I felt I knew enough, I dug deep into the Word. A combination of incredible support from my husband and friends, a return to a creativity I thought had left me long before-and a deep faith in Jesus led me out of the muck and mire that is codependency.

I don’t care who you are, your opinion of me has much more to do with you than any other factor. I am no fence sitter-folks either love me or hate me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Be of good cheer, God is in control~

Here’s the Rub…

This blog is killing two birds with one stone. In all of the hustle and bustle, I completely spaced New Music Thursdays! Not important in the grand scheme of things, but hearing Norah Jones through “new ears,” not once-but twice in one weekend initiated a foray into her unique, jazzy, vintage sound.

I had always linked this tune with roads untaken. As much as my addictions took years from my life-my social anxiety has robbed me of much, much more. I find it ironic that getting sober brought on a new list of phobias and nervous ticks – I pick at my skin when anxious, am completely incapable of dealing with any kind of stress, and would rather have a root canal than travel sans Jesse, my golden retriver. I am a germ phobe extraordinaire, a dog hypochondriac and feel uncomfortable (make that extremely uncomfortable) around people I do not know.

1450868_670242899675796_1120820745_n Jesse, to the left. Our beloved Dylan to the right of our son-may He await me at the Rainbow Bridge

What we regret in our lives is never as painful as chances, opportunities not taken. With Social Anxiety, you are forced to cancel plans depending upon just how strong you feel on that particular day. Interestingly enough, my nerves are their worst in the evening, which I attribute to the notion that I am not fully awake for the first four hours after rising. If you want to give me bad news, do so as the sun rises-with any luck? I won’t remember what you said by noon.

I was completely uninhibited as a child-thinking nothing of knocking on doors, asking the neighbors to bake me cookies. I had a sense of myself from very early on, and as a young girl, my father doted on my propensity to not take crap from any person, place or inanimate object. I learned quickly that pleasing dad meant everything. I yearned to make him proud, he was a nurturing father to me, despite many less than ideal situations; such as, my mother-who was pathologically jealous of our closeness. And herein lies the rub:

In your formative years, you have nothing but the reactions of others to mold and guide you in your very human quest to be loved, to fit in. When your own mother dislikes you? Well, let’s just say I was at an extreme disadvantage. Later in life, Satan’s Seed (aka, my sister)did not miss an opportunity to berate, humiliate or gaslight me-I sunk further into depression.

There is hope and I am here to say things are so much better on the other side of recovery from narcissistic abuse. You begin to see the very things the narc disliked about you (pure and total jealousy) are the very same things that others will love. I did my research, and once I felt I knew enough, I dug deep into the Word. A combination of incredible support from my husband and friends, a return to a creativity I thought had left me long before-and a deep faith in Jesus led me out of the muck and mire that is codependency.

I don’t care who you are, your opinion of me has much more to do with you than any other factor. I am no fence sitter-folks either love me or hate me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Be of good cheer, God is in control~

B.O. and Bad Sushi…

I don’t know where to begin.  Ahem.  I don’t blame this on anyone but me, and I have come to the place of acceptance, and laughter-and a deeper understanding of my profound love for my husband.

The morning began with a decision.  Dwain had gone target shooting with his son, (thank you for your prayers, dear friends-that situation is healing) and I was left alone, looking at the darkened sky, hearing the rolling thunder.

“Should I risk driving to church with the jeep top down?”

I knew darn well that every time I stayed home because of the “weather” I missed out on relationships, the lunches, the shopping.  I decided then and there-I was going to chance it.  My friend Leeny awaited me.  A sinus infection had kept me away from the every other Sunday service (we are members of a church in Lititz, Hosanna A Fellowship of Christians) I had promised her, upon learning of her recent health scare.  I just wasn’t about to let her down, that’s what it came down to in the end.

At the service, just as the preacher began his sermon on the prodigal son, thunder shook the chapel-the congregation laughed.

“The Holy Spirit has joined me,” he chuckled, to the delight of the crowd.

All I could think, was crapstastic.  And oh, how tastic the crap became.  I left the church, in a light Summer frock, no jacket-to buckets and buckets of water.  On the way to my jeep, I see a poor woman fall-flat on her poor face-right down the backdoor stairs.  The EMT in me assesses the situation and kind men pick her up and set her on her feet.  Prognoses?  Possible broken nose.

I run as fast as I can in heels, on slick parking lot, without killing myself.  I open the door, the jeep has at least 2 inches of water puddled on the floor.  It’s pouring and I am chilled to the bone.  I see that traffic isn’t moving because a big, black truck is trying to come towards us-he is going the wrong way!  Son of a BITCH!!!  

Now I’m in full panic mode.  I reverse and try to go the other way.  It won’t work.  I see the car in front of me move, so I do a U-turn and try again.  This time the truck is coming alongside my vehicle.  The parishioner is asking if I want him to help me put the top on.  I just want to get the mojo out of there, and I brush him off.

“JUST GO!!!,” I scream.

And just then, it hits me.  The “parishioner” is my husband.  Later, he will tell me that when he hit the Pretzel Hut (a local ma and pa burger joint) he realizes that I am at church with the jeep top down and it is raining cats and dogs.  He says he drove 100 mph (frowny face indeed!) on slick roads to come to my rescue.  When I get home, he apologizes profusely, saying had he not gone away with his son, I wouldn’t be shivering and, well, drowned is the only word that comes to mind.

I tell him he’s ridiculous.  He needs to spend time with his son.  I am not a child, I am accountable for my own actions.  In the shower, I beam and my heart swells with love and gratitude.  I take my time in the shower, jump into warm clothes and my favorite bunny socks, take a little bit longer with my makeup.

I nuzzle up close to my man, and he is pleased.

“You smell like B.O. and bad sushi,” he gushes.

And he laughed and laughed and laughed, until I found the little piece of flesh, on his inner thigh, and twerked it-as hard as I could.

 

 

Spoon Man

 

Did you know that God has an amazing sense of humor?  Well, He does-and I share that with Him; however, the joke is almost always at my expense, and today?  Well today was no different.

It’s about one hundred degrees in the shade, and muggy as hell.  I detest this weather, however, the dog needs to be walked-and I am a glutton for punishment.  Been that way since I was a wee toddler, asking questions that had no answer, (Mary Lou did not take kindly to my constant questioning of everything) packing my Barbie suitcase in defiance-I would run to the Teany’s house-hey, they had one of those pianos that plays by itself, and their home was SO cozy-usually because my real mom was locked in the linen closet.

As a child, I was convinced that Marilyn Monroe was my real mother.  When mom got cranky?  I told myself that Marilyn would come and find me one day-and then she’d pay, oh yes, my mother would pay the price for causing me discomfort.  🙂

So, I’d run to the neighbor’s house, beg for cookies, unpack my suitcase (various crayons and doll heads, no body, just heads) and revel in my independence for the entire ten minutes it took for me to be retrieved-I cried every time Mrs. Teany called mom-I wouldn’t get my cookies, and needless to say?  Mom was not the happiest camper when finding herself interrupted by her freakishly brazen daughter.  I was four, for Pete’s sake.marilyn monroe

Back to our :  I drove down to the lake, thinking it would be cooler, and parked.  The fishing guy was there, of course, as he was every morning -grumbling about the lack of bites; ornery but sweet as they come.

I haven’t been down here in awhile.  Last time I saw a snake!!!”

And indeed I had.  The rat bastard hid under a bush, just waiting for some dumbass to come along-then he’s make his move.   That’s right-and I ran like a cartoon character, as fast as my legs would carry me.  I run from twigs that look like snakes as well, and, praise GOD, people don’t usually hear my screaming-a bit like a Tourette’s patient on crack- I have a really big mouth.

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Okay…I always have to pee on our hikes.  I have no problem with modesty (who hasn’t seen a naked hiny?????) but try to plan my spot strategically, avoiding any embarrassment, for the poor fool who finds me squatting.  I came to the perfect tree that would bear my weight, and got down to business.  The only problem?

The fucking mosquitoes saw that gimongous bullseye and went for it-right in between my ass cheeks, they held a bar mitzvah and talked amongst themselves.  Only I didn’t notice until I had resumed hiking.  I tried, like hell, to itch my buttocks-but my shorts were too tight.  That didn’t stop me from repeatedly pinching the area, looking for relief from the painful itch.  I tried to move faster, but it was an entire process folks.

And then it hit me.  This is a job for….SPOON MAN.  Why those words?  I have not one clue, but I can tell you that the picture in my head of some dude dressed up as a spoon, running through the trails of Middlecreek, well, that cracked my ass up-literally.

The laughter took my mind off of the direness; the problem at hand.  I had mace in my front pocket and my phone in my back, leaving not one iota of space in my jean shorts to, well, relieve myself, if you will.

By the time we returned?  The itching had ceased.

But Spoon Man?  He tickles my funny bone, this imagined super hero.

And for that I am incredibly grateful.

 

 

B.O. and Bad Sushi…

I don’t know where to begin.  Ahem.  I don’t blame this on anyone but me, and I have come to the place of acceptance, and laughter-and a deeper understanding of my profound love for my husband.

The morning began with a decision.  Dwain had gone target shooting with his son, (thank you for your prayers, dear friends-that situation is healing) and I was left alone, looking at the darkened sky, hearing the rolling thunder.

“Should I risk driving to church with the jeep top down?”

I knew darn well that every time I stayed home because of the “weather” I missed out on relationships, the lunches, the shopping.  I decided then and there-I was going to chance it.  My friend Leeny awaited me.  A sinus infection had kept me away from the every other Sunday service (we are members of a church in Lititz, Hosanna A Fellowship of Christians) I had promised her, upon learning of her recent health scare.  I just wasn’t about to let her down, that’s what it came down to in the end.

At the service, just as the preacher began his sermon on the prodigal son, thunder shook the chapel-the congregation laughed.

“The Holy Spirit has joined me,” he chuckled, to the delight of the crowd.

All I could think, was crapstastic.  And oh, how tastic the crap became.  I left the church, in a light Summer frock, no jacket-to buckets and buckets of water.  On the way to my jeep, I see a poor woman fall-flat on her poor face-right down the backdoor stairs.  The EMT in me assesses the situation and kind men pick her up and set her on her feet.  Prognoses?  Possible broken nose.

I run as fast as I can in heels, on slick parking lot, without killing myself.  I open the door, the jeep has at least 2 inches of water puddled on the floor.  It’s pouring and I am chilled to the bone.  I see that traffic isn’t moving because a big, black truck is trying to come towards us-he is going the wrong way!  Son of a BITCH!!!  

Now I’m in full panic mode.  I reverse and try to go the other way.  It won’t work.  I see the car in front of me move, so I do a U-turn and try again.  This time the truck is coming alongside my vehicle.  The parishioner is asking if I want him to help me put the top on.  I just want to get the mojo out of there, and I brush him off.

“JUST GO!!!,” I scream.

And just then, it hits me.  The “parishioner” is my husband.  Later, he will tell me that when he hit the Pretzel Hut (a local ma and pa burger joint) he realizes that I am at church with the jeep top down and it is raining cats and dogs.  He says he drove 100 mph (frowny face indeed!) on slick roads to come to my rescue.  When I get home, he apologizes profusely, saying had he not gone away with his son, I wouldn’t be shivering and, well, drowned is the only word that comes to mind.

I tell him he’s ridiculous.  He needs to spend time with his son.  I am not a child, I am accountable for my own actions.  In the shower, I beam and my heart swells with love and gratitude.  I take my time in the shower, jump into warm clothes and my favorite bunny socks, take a little bit longer with my makeup.

I nuzzle up close to my man, and he is pleased.

“You smell like B.O. and bad sushi,” he gushes.

And he laughed and laughed and laughed, until I found the little piece of flesh, on his inner thigh, and twerked it-as hard as I could.