Saturday, May 18, 2013

SCHOOOOOOOOOL'S OUT FOR SUMMER!!!!!

And my brain already feels like it might just regain its normal functionality....
I think the amount of stress I was under, due to the way the semester started for me, has been gouging holes in my gray matter, and severing neurons left and right.
I was afraid that I would lose my grip entirely if I let myself relax...
Anywho.
Here comes summer!!!
Two weeks to myself, then the kids are out of school, too, and a week later we pile into the swanky new minivan and drive to MAINE for the younger stepson's graduation! Spend a couple of weeks of wild family fun, then send everyone else away and play for 2 more weeks with my friends, so I can hit my 20th high school reunion (how'd that happen??) and then drive back to Iowa for a couple of days, and on to Utah to visit family and friends for a couple of weeks before reclaiming my boys from their month with Dad. Whew! It's gonna be a helluva good time, I can tell already!!!!
Ok, enough rambling.

Not sure why I even post here.......it's like tossing a message in a bottle into the ocean...

I have some goals.
For me:
1. exercise
2. meditate
3. write
--every day

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Spring??

Mayhaps, just possibly...we will move from winter into summer, but I'm still not holding my breath.
Weird year, eh?

School is going well, considering.
Winding down, which really means packed with lots of papers and tests and projects and
I feel a little bit overwhelmed, but then--
Poof!
Summer vacation.
And lots of road
trip
ping.

I believe in the texture that poems can bring to words,
but not really in poetry, not the way the literary world tries to force us to view it.
Bah.
Just gimme words, gimme rhythm, yeah.

I feel like my brain--or really, my mind--needs a massage, and like, maybe some aromatherapy-bubblebathy situation as well.
Just, y'know, like....a real chill out.
Ok, here's my rant: all this faceobooky crap is distorting the precision of language.
Says the girl who just wrote "facebooky" and is about to complain that teenagers' use of letter repetition as emphasis is fucking up her ability to do the same. Only different. BETTER.
See, I like to use the device of adding extra vowels to draw out the word, like "chill"--above, I wanted to draw it out: "Chiiiiiiiiiill...." And I wanted you, the reader, to understand that I was saying it long and slow. However, these little scalawags do not pay attention at all and simply add extra letters in the hopes of adding general emphasis (I'm assuming). Like "I lovvvveeee  you." Ok, but I can't stop thinking the v's should be stuttered and making the e's long (by the way, I am generally opposed to using apostrophes for anything other than their PERFECT uses, BUT I read in a style manual that for things like single letters it dispels confusion to just use the apostrophe instead of the italics and s, like I was taught 843 years ago....

Wow! A rant AND a tangent!! Nice!
And I know I'm totally a hypocrite, because I am living proof that our language is evolving, and I do believe that that's what makes it a living language, but.......I just wish that everyone understood phonics a little better, maybe???

Ok. Well.
I suppose I should go to sleep now.
One more episode of  "Smash," and then lights out.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Ashes to Ashes


So I say, “I have to pick up my Dad,”
and I know it sounds casual
and normal
as though I were picking him up from the airport,
or from some perfectly mundane place across town.
But that’s not where he is.
He is on a windy hilltop,
in a building designed to be comforting in its serene beauty,
its halls plush
meant for hush-
ed tones.
He is not exactly a “he” anymore, or a person at all,
but has been reduced to his essence,
the stuff not eaten by the flames.
There, he awaits his last trip home.
His last flight…
“I don't EVER want to fly again,” he proclaimed
last month
upon returning from far across the ocean,
        from that island 
where we thought he was already lost to us.

Home we’ll go.
So that he may,
at long last,
rest with the peace that he has earned--
impatiently sought, in these last days, 
but earned, nonetheless.

Tuesday, January 08, 2013

Today is a Bob Dylan Radio Kinda Day

Or, at least, this morning is.
I better get something written so I can squeeze in a trip to the gym before my lunch date.
Yes, that's right!
I have friends!
Two friends in Iowa...how about THAT?

I have too much to do so I'll just leave it all for tomorrow...again.
I keep leaving things for tomorrow, and soon I'll run out of time.

I have emails to write, emails to reply to, and so much more,
yet somehow, trips to the gym and lunch dates are all I can seem to accomplish in a day........

But I'm happy.
I feel.

Nope, it's not a Bob Dylan kind of  morning.
I need.......something else....

Aaaaaah....Eddie.
Yes.
Pearl Jam radio is always the answer; why did I even try for something else?

Ok, I'm off to fiction-writing land. Wish me luck and proliferation...

Have a great day--

Friday, January 04, 2013

Tardy

We arrive,
breathless,
on the cusp of being late.
"Run like the wind," I say
and turn to see if their backs will fade
quickly toward the large brick building.
Instead,
they trudge as though moving through ankle-deep sludge.
Slow-motion versions of the lightening-fast boys I pictured when the doors slammed in unison.
I sigh,
turn on NPR and move back out into traffic.

:)

The start of my day was in the still-dark hours as my Love readied himself for work.
I lay, snuggled beneath the down,
stretching and purring, like his favorite pet.
I worked out my life, my future, in those dark, half-awake hours,
and when I finally rose,
I felt renewed and lighter than I have in weeks...months?
You see,
I have been depressed.
I am loathe to admit it...
not because I look down on depressed persons,
but because of my father and his genes.
My father, who slipped through a rip in the fabric of time, or space, really
to live with me--
with no pre-planning,
no asking or even telling.
Just desperately, frantically discarding the life he had begun to build in the Philippines for the past year,
emailing to ask if he could "visit for a while."
Was I stupid to not realize that he had no where else to go, so a visit would be far more permanent than any visit has a right to be?
--any father has a right to be, after deserting one's angelic mother despite the amazingly thorough and kind way she cared for him and his every whim for 38 years???
Oh yes, I have some unresolved anger, did you notice?
Could you see it there, dripping down my sleeve, leaking from the heart I wear there?
His choice to leave her is still nonsensical,
it is discordant,
it is unrhyming, unrhythmed
un
real.
So, not to mention a lifetime of having nothing in common
(except my broken genes and my worst character traits),
I now have unexpressed anger for this cute little man.
And moments before my son went in for BRAIN SURGERY,
I read the words, "I can't stay here any longer. Could I come visit you for a while?"
And I primally screamed,
for my emotions were already entirely used up by the 3 weeks in the pediatric ICU and my baby boy, my tall, lanky, incredibly creative, tough and delicate little (taller-than-me) boy.
I wanted to throw a tantrum, because
IT WASN'T FAIR
that my father was asking me for a bucket full of emotions
when he should have known I had not even a drop to spare.
I was wrung-out, exhausted, worried.
And then I had to shift and worry about all the ways it would suck
to have my father in my house,
desperately trying to conjure positive memories and potential goodness.
Gruffly ignoring the memories of all the self-less, kind things he has done for me.

And he didn't arrive calmly and joyously;
he didn't arrive after careful planning,
and by bringing with him all that he needed.
He arrived broken and whimpering,
as though he had literally dragged himself across the entire Pacific Ocean and fully half of the United States.
Heartless?
Me?
No.
Well, maybe.
But it just wasn't good timing, you know?
And when he was in the sorry state he was in directly due to his own poor choices,
how
how
HOW THE FUCK
could I brim over with pity, or whatever??
I couldn't.
I can't.
I'm still too angry about his desertion of my mother,
and too tired from living in a place I'm resisting,
and too depressed from having had to give up half of my dream in order to keep the other half...
but that's a different rant for a different day,
or maybe not at all,
because today
I feel
like I can breath deeply of the crisp Iowa air
and accept change.
Oh, sure, it has been one whole, entire, complete, extra-long-due-to-leap-year year.
So, giving me any accolades whatsoever for reaching the point where I'm ready to accept that I don't get to live in Maine anymore (oh, god, can I really accept it, when every time I say/think/hear that line, it feels like the winds of a Nor'Easter are churning through me, leaving me hollow and shaky?)
But, yeah. I guess I have to.
I am ready to embrace this place, and the changes that come with it.
But that, apparently, is separate from my clingy love affair with Maine.
I can let go a little...

Because it is
TIME.
Perhaps sliiiiightly past time, you know, technically....
But I'll take it.
I'll get my shit together and go to the gym and the grocery store,
and be home in time to pick up my Boy for his MRI and check-up with the neurosurgeon.
Because life is beautiful and I have a lot to be grateful for.
Thanks to facebook and a former classmate for the random reminder:
Accept Change and Live in Gratitude.
It caught my attention because she's not someone I knew well in school,
but she wasn't very nice most of the time,
and when another classmate linked to something she painted, 
I was intrigued and when I read that quote on another painting of hers,
it jarred me.
I didn't see those words as coming from her, so I rejected them and thought of the person I had known, and let the words trickle through as I wrestled with allowing myself to accept the person she has become...you could see the light in her eyes, the calm joy spreading across her face.
So...people do change.
And that gives me hope.
And it was perfectly timed, with my emergence from a shallow, but long-lasting situational depression that has lain over me like a mo(u)rning dew since I arrived here in Iowa...
Time to shuck that shit off, my friends!!!!
Seize the motha-fuckin' day!!!
right????
Yes.
Because this is TWENTY-THIRTEEN, my friends, and it will be a great year, with or without my participation. And I would rather benefit from the awesomeness than sulk in a corner all year, steeped in self-pity and inertia.

So there.

Happy Friday, World!
Time to carpe the hell out of this diem, eh??




Friday, December 07, 2012


I was thinking I should write something, and now I am. 
Oh, the curse of the blank page!!!
 It’s so much easier when you’re writing to an immediate audience, don’t ya know.
So therefore, to market to market to buy a fat blog….

(moved from Word to Blogger) 

I just turned on Bob Dylan.
Well, I can’t be sure…
It might just be a banana in his pocket.
Or a guitar pick??
But seriously…I was in the mood for some soothing tunes and harmonica
Or a dude and his guitar,
Or.
Something.

What happened to me?
When did I tumble from cool/edgy/sexy into frumpy/insecure/static?
Or maybe I was never quite as cool as I thought I was,
And also, it isn't the “when” that I should be pondering,
But the “how”.
How, how, how…?
It’s like I’m the yin to my own yang
I turned inside out or upside down, but not both, no…
It’s too symmetrical to have been both.
Where once I was surging with need,
Now I am sated, a fat cat smiling with canary feathers floating slowly down through a beam of sunlight as I bask in the warm afternoon sunlight through a bay window overlooking…well, the ocean, because that’s what would make me happy, but probably a cat wouldn't care, so that analogy has broken down.

I’m pretty sure Pandora just threw me some Johnny Cash…a duet?
Indeed! With June Carter…aw…
(“If I Were a Carpenter”)
I smile sweetly because I was dreaming of my Love,
and how his glorious heart has transformed me,
and then a couple started singing.
Profound.
Back to my life ponderings, though…
Because I wasn’t done.
It is like I went from all sharp edges and intensity,
seeking, dreaming, needing, craving
To
Happy, satisfied, fulfilled—
So deeply and thoroughly that my motivation evaporated under the warming light of his love…hehe…cheesy, eh?
But I can’t help but feel a bit lost…
My identity was that woman, the one with a tattoo and a piercing and a sassy, sexy attitude.
The one who was driven to flash her best colors to every pair of eyes to wander across her refraction  hoping to attract The One.
And then she did…er, I did.
And that side of me, that version of me was replaced with a woman so intensely in love with The One that I transformed, oh my….like being bitten by a zombie or a vampire or werewolf or infested with brain bacteria that make me crave him...
I am now his acolyte.
I need to shake free of the haze 
that keeps me in this daze
And find a way…
To merge that kick-ass, fun, rebellious little chick
With
This happy, boring, lump.
It’s a puzzle I can’t solve just yet.
Because how do I find a new motivation??
I tend to let life drag me along, tumbling where it takes me.
Where to, next, Universe??
I want to continue to thrive with my True Love…I do not want to go back to that place…where I yearn and keen and claw my way through life,
But I’m just not used to being content.
It feels soooo nice…but it makes me complacent.
So how do I recapture some drive without losing what I have??
I guess I just need to remind myself that he and I will both be happier and even more thoroughly fulfilled if I feel sexy and alive/worthwhile again…
Because I am losing sight of that woman, that person I felt so sure I was.
And, of course, life is not a constant, life is undulating, ever-changing, tortuous in its path, so why do I find myself continually surprised by its dynamic nature?
Ah, well.
Here I am.
Wandering the pathways of my mind again…
Maybe I just need to do this more often.
Well, duh.
I've been saying that for years.
Have I been not blogging for as long as I've been blogging??
Wow…that makes me sad.
Not that I need to blog, per se, but that I don’t write on a regular basis anymore.
And maybe………..
Maybe I will, or maybe I’m chasing an unattainable dream.

Oooh, Neil Young, “Pocahontas.” Nice!

Oh. Duh.
The gym.
The answer is: THE GYM.
I smile, and relax a bit...

Stones, "Paint it Black"...yeah....
I will, dammit! I will paint that gym black!!!
Or my wardrobe...But not my hair.
I love black.
I guess I can't pull of black hair as a chubber.
And yes, I sure am one.
I have hidden within the security of a personalized fat suit for 3 years, 4?
And I am soooooo ready to unzip that fucker and step out of it!!!!!
(If only it were that easy, but oh yes, it really is, because I love a love a love the gym!)

Ok, well.

yeah. 

I want to be Toni Morrison.




Wednesday, August 01, 2012


 So...tomorrow is a big day. I've been avoiding the thought, pretending it's no big deal. But as I watched my tall, strapping, handsome sons wrestling around and bouncing and laughing out on their trampoline...it hit me. My son, my first born twin, my darling child with all the fucked up health issues, will be under the knife again tomorrow. Almost exactly 12 years from the day they came home from the hospital. Almost exactly 12 years from the day the first neurosurgeon placed the VP shunt that they are finally replacing tomorrow. And I know it's a routine procedure. But it's still brain surgery. And there is still that chance...however small...that the boy I know will be changed forever. Just writing that makes me feel better, because my gut says he will be just as funny and cantankerous and wonderful as he is today. But. I cried over the sink full of dishes anyway.
And here is the essay I wrote 7 years ago, about the whole thing.

                   The Weight of Unheard Fears



It worries me. So much so, that I don’t allow myself to think about it often.  I know that this has the power to cripple me if I focus on it.  So I don’t.  One beautiful, matched set of baby boys was granted to me.  My body made a genetic anomaly, as the Twins Research Study pamphlet indicated.  I had never thought of it that way, but I suppose it is correct.  Anomaly or no, they were perfect to me.  And they still are. Beautiful, sweet babies, ruthlessly inquisitive preschoolers—most days lately it feels like I’m on “Larry King Live”, being drilled with hard hitting questions like machine-gun fire.  “What is lava? Will it burn you? Is it always orange? Do all mountains come from volcanoes?”, “Where do tornadoes come from?”, “How old is Grandpa? 70? That’s old…he must be really tall!”  They are amazing and wonderful in all of the ways a mother sees her children.

            My worry, however, comes from a condition that is common in premature babies, but causes severe brain damage in some cases.  I don’t know what the statistics are, but I do know that so far we are counted among the lucky.  The little one who needed brain surgery at 6 weeks old is as much like his brother as any twin would be. 

            I chose two names for them, and when they had filled my womb so tightly that it seemed they wouldn’t change position again, I slapped a name on each little jumble of limbs.  The one who seemed eager to crawl right on out of me would be Oliver, the first-born—the “oldest”, as silly as that is.  The one nestled into my ribs would be Max.  On the weekend of my 33rd week of pregnancy (7 weeks shy of a normal delivery date, 3 weeks before the date my doctor and I had chosen for doing a scheduled birth) my husband went camping with his five brothers.  Out of cell phone range, but with strict orders to check in from a payphone near their wilderness location as often as possible.  On their second day of family fun, two of the brothers got into a terrible argument, and my mild-natured husband decided to excuse himself.  He headed home to go golfing instead of listening to the foolishness of nearly 3 decades of rivalry.  He stopped in to get his golf clubs, and I sent him on his way with a chuckle—a family with six boys is understandably a bit of a powder keg on occasion.  Just as he was about to tee off, he got my phone call: the water had broken, I needed him to come pick me up and take me to the hospital.  I’m sure most people have watched enough TV to have an idea of that whole scene, but I will add my acquiescence that contractions are no fun and rides to the hospital are too long.  There was much swearing, though none of it directed at my husband—that part of the delivery cliché has always confused me.  As far as I know, it takes two people to make a baby. After the seemingly slow-motion-afflicted nurses finally prepped me for the epidural, it was like someone had flipped a switch: the sailor in possession of my mouth vanished and my manners kicked in: apologies were doled out like cigars and I noticed that my husband was in the room—and was actually glad for it.

            The baby in position to deliver first was deemed to be in distress, so they rushed me into the operating room for a C-section.  I can remember feeling very numb at that point—physically, from the anesthesia, but mostly emotional numbness.  I remember lying there, hearing so many doctors and nurses around me, the peculiarly hospital-like smells and the bright lights.  I felt like I was at the end of a long hallway, with my uterus and the medical professionals at the other end.  A male voice saying, “This one’s not breathing,” has echoed through my mind many times since then, always followed by my gratefulness that the problem was soon corrected.  That was Oliver, and he was whisked away to the respirators.  A few minutes later I heard the sweet, fragile—but somehow very pissed off-sounding—cry of the second twin, Maxwell.  I still couldn’t see anyone else, but it felt very quiet around me; the action had clearly moved elsewhere.  My husband went with Oliver to the Newborn Intensive Care Unit and after a timeless number of minutes alone in that room someone brought my second baby to me and let me have a glimpse—no touching yet, no holding.  His little red face was that of a stranger, hooded in a hospital-provided receiving blanket.  I was still in a cloud of drugs and shock, and they let me sleep until sometime the next day, when I was plunked into a wheelchair and taken to the floor with the babies.  The whole hospital stay is a blur to me, but I remember that first visit very clearly.  That was my first meeting with Oliver, and my first chance to “hold” either of them.  They looked like aliens, with monitors and tubes poking out of them in every direction, their tiny hands moving like tired butterflies around their faces, their spindly little legs poking out of giant preemie-sized diapers.  I remember my confusion over which one to hold first, and the horrible feelings of inadequacy at all that lay ahead—knowing that I would have to split my time between two little creatures who each needed me every minute of the day was daunting, but we made it.  They learned to share from day one, and I discovered that I am a champion multi-tasker.  Before becoming the mother of twins, I thought the scope of my multi-tasking talents was limited to talking on the phone while baking a pie, or keeping an ear on the TV and an eye on my book.

            They were healthy little buggers and came home after just a few weeks of extra nutrition and careful monitoring of hearts and lungs.  We were ready for them—physically, at least, and I had recovered from the surgery by then.  Looking back, I marvel at how tiny they were.  The two of them, lying crossways in a single crib.  It looked enormous, and its match waited patiently in the nursery for the day we would finally believe that they could sleep through a night more than 3 feet away from us…it took five months, just for the record.  

During their first week home, I noticed that Oliver’s head was larger than Max’s.  It started out as a subtle difference but seemed to become more noticeable as the next weeks passed.  My sister-in-law is a nurse, so when she came by to see us, I asked her what she thought of his head.  She agreed that there was a difference and suggested that it might be hydrocephalus.  We took him to see the pediatrician the next day, and tests were ordered.  Her guess was right, and a pediatric neurosurgeon was lined up for the following day. 

Hydrocephalus is often referred to as “water on the brain”, although that is a misnomer.  Scientifically speaking, it is a condition where the spinal fluid isn’t draining properly from the ventricles of the brain, where it originates.  This causes brain damage in many babies but we were lucky.  More than lucky.  More than blessed, more than spared.  My superstitious nature makes me afraid to even talk about how it is that his run-in with nature was so mild, by comparison.

I didn’t call my parents, I didn’t even call that helpful sister-in-law.  I don’t think I took a breath until sometime in the afternoon when I had confirmation that my tiny little baby was safe again.  I didn’t even know him yet, but I knew that losing him would have ruined us all. 

            The surgery that saved his life is fairly low risk, but the tube is permanent, and will continue to drain the fluids that his ventricles are stubbornly hoarding.  He will not be able to play football or hockey—contact sports are out—but they say baseball, basketball and his father’s favorite, golf, are all acceptable.  I keep telling myself that he’ll be able to live a normal life, because so far he has. He developed an allergy to peanuts, and sometimes I wonder if this is the way I am reminded that he is more fragile than his brother.  It is a constant concern, to keep peanuts away from him, whereas the shunt is fairly easy to forget about.  It is a way to keep us alert, to remind us that he is special.  It is a much more visceral problem, if no less life-threatening. He knows that he is allergic, and he knows to ask before eating something unfamiliar.  I am armed with an epi-pen (epinephrine) and that gives me a sense of control.  If he experiences a head trauma, that life-saving shunt could become our worst nightmare.

Most days I don’t think about it.  Most days I run around like a one-armed paper hanger, trying to keep up with the messes and the questions of two extremely active five year old boys.  I shrug and say it’s because I’m tough, and I don’t like to wallow in worry.  This is the biggest, fattest, most puss-filled lie of them all.  While it’s true that I am tough, and truer still that I don’t like to wallow—in anything—the real reason that I don’t think about it is because I can’t.  I purposely shove it out of my mind and into a dark corner of some far away attic because the “what if”s have the power to bind me.  Imagining what our lives would be like with Max as the constant reminder of what we lost would be like a cruel joke.  They look the same, their gestures and mannerisms are the same, even if their personalities are so different it makes my head spin.  Where one loves order and numbers, the other loves imitating accents and describing dreams.  They are two halves of a whole, in a way that I never realized twins would be.  Their entire sense of self has grown from the other, has been shaped by the other.  I know that they are separate people, but they are only just learning that. To have that experience derailed would be another sort of tragedy.

I have no proof, but as a parent, I have attempted to blame myself.  This is counter-productive, but I’ll keep it tucked away until I need it.  Until something goes wrong.  It’s easy to keep that particular worry suppressed while everything is calm and cool and sane.  But if our worst fears come to be, then I will no doubt waste some energy dwelling on what I could have done differently to prevent the infection which most likely caused his hydrocephalus.  The doctor told me the infection wasn’t my fault, that it’s just something that happens during pregnancies sometimes.  But I am fairly certain that I could convince myself otherwise if I needed to.  It’s better than having no one to blame.  The hurricane-sized ball of fury will have to be directed somewhere…

I must force myself to acknowledge these possibilities, at least enough to further cherish these precious days with my sons, these days of their equality.  I hope (with all that I am) for that qualification to never change.  But I know that it might.  I know that any parent would share my worry—to have a child lost (either in part or in whole) is the greatest pain a heart-driven human can know.  It’s something that is against nature, against the grain of the circle of life.  Just writing these words, I feel the blue demons of fear churning through my middle.  I can see his big eyes and his still-spindly little legs, I can hear his jokes and his laughter.  I want to pad silently up the stairs and go slip into his bed and hold his little warm self close—and tell him he’s safe, so that I will hear the words and believe them. 

Let’s be the Bonnie and Clyde of authors—

Would that be Bukowski and Sylvia Plath?

Or maybe Hemingway and Virginia Woolfe?

But I’m the orphaned love-child of Bukowski and Plath,

A seed planted in the Bell jar that stood beside the bed

Covered in tangled sheets and sweaty limbs,

Grinding groins and panted meter.

So I guess
we
can’t be them…
because I already am.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

I should...

Just title this blog, "Whining, by Lisa"
because
that would be so much more appropriate at this point.

I am happy.
But.
I am also lonely and _________.
So many different words could fill in that blankety blank blank right now.
But they won't.
Because I can't even say them...just...
Don't want to give in to the sadness.
I'm sure half of this is hormonally motivated, or what, is it like...a full moon or some shit??
But the bare bones truth of the matter is that I am alone
all
the
time.
Sure, it's summer now, so the kids are technically here all day.
But they're like, ya know, TWELVE now, and they've always needed each other more than they needed me.
Or maybe "liked" is a better word than "needed."
They love me, but they prefer each other's company.
I don't blame them...I am the Mom, they are the Twins.....and they are friggin BOYS, to boot.
They don't want to watch Anne of Green Gables and dream of princes and play Barbies--
I'll assume.
And so we have little in common.
Since I don't shoot air soft guns or enjoy video games of war and such.
I feel like such a misfit sometimes...I thought being a Mom would be so fun...so natural.
But instead, I constantly feel left out and confused and out of touch.
I don't get to be the soft-sweet-singing-giggling Mommy, I have to be the no-stop hitting him-don't-touch-that Mom. I have to remind them for the 4 millionth time to CLOSE THE GODDAMNED SHOWER CURTAIN or whatever the hell is the cause of the fucking drenched bath mat/2-3 towels after every shower I have to force them to take.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
I need a fucking girl's night out, the only problem is that I live in fucking Iowa now.
I am acquainted with precisely 2 women.
They are each the wife of one of my husband's co-workers, and I don't get the sense that we are destined to be friends, not all together, at least. I think I will be friends with each of them, separately. They don't seem likely to mix. But I could be wrong. Either way, the fucking point is that I don't really have the option and I just miss my friends, and I miss my Mom and I am mad at my Dad, but I miss him, too, and I worry about him in the fucking Philippines and I worry for Oliver's surgery on Thursday and I am just tired.
But I shouldn't be tired, because I don't DO ANYTHING.
Well, maybe some laundry, dishes, baking, cooking...but, like, way more Castleville than I would admit to if the proof wasn't splashed all over Facebook.
I feel like I'm fighting off a tsunami of emotions with an origami sword and shield...
And I kind of feel like just crawling into bed and waiting for it all to pass, but that is THE OPPOSITE of what I feeeeeel like doing!!!!
I am sick of doing so much NOTHING.
I am sick of the self-indulgence with which I pass my days...I feel guilty and panicked because I do so little.
I read
a
lot.
And play the aforementioned annoying and embarssing game.
But I don't WRITE.
And I don't create.
And I don't explore, exercise, examine, exult..............
I need stimulation, dammit!!!
I need to register for classes and power through these last free days of summer, then put my nose to the grindstone.........
I just hope I don't drown in my own paddling pool of self-pity before then.

Good lawd, I'm dramatic today.
Here's hoping this little therapy session helped me find steady ground.
And maybe I will tap into a little momentum and rock my way out of my rut tomorrow....