My husband’s screen name is Poppi. He wears his hair in two Space Oddity pigtails on top of his head and a tight, black skull tee shirt that shows off his navel and the twins. He sneers at the crowd and jumps around a lot. He looks hot…for a girl. I’m talking about his persona in the game Rock Band. I’m not sure if he plays bass or lead because all guitars look the same with Rock Band. But, but, but, he’s super cool. 
I wanna be him. If only to be that cool wearing the clothes. When he goes on tour, playing places like Los Angeles or Tokyo, he earns threads for his closet. Big chunky boots, fishnet stockings with safety pins, short army fatigue skirts, hip-hugger tight glitter jeans, big hoop earrings, metal tees with strategically placed holes, and metal studded wrist bands. He has a whole closet full of cool clothes. Rocker outfits. Really cool outfits only really cool people can wear.
I wanna be Poppi but, I’m out of my league.
Category: Confessional
Motley Crue Mantra
I am homesick. There. I said it. Home. Sick. Sick for Home. Home. Home. There’s not a soul alive who can connect the dots and understand where I’m coming from right now. This ache started slower than slow. So slow I didn’t even notice it until now. Where I want to be isn’t a location on a map. Doesn’t have coordinates to guide anyone anywhere, especially me. I couldn’t explain it if I tried. I can’t, so I won’t.
After a Sunday conversation with my mother I felt the stars start to align. The universe started to right itself, because that same day someone else said “Let’s go to The Island this summer.” Kisa looked at me and smiled. That was coincidence enough. I couldn’t have dropped all other plans fast enough – even if I tried. Doesn’t matter what was on my plate, what had priority previously. All bets are off at the mention of home home home. In the case of San Diego, well, let’s just say that’s not taking up so much of my plate anymore…kinda pushed to one side…but we’re still going.
Now we have a house lined up. The dates are set, the check is set to be in the mail. I can already picture the porch. I get dibs on the hammock. A great sunset and even better glass of redred wine. Mine, all mine. Let’s have a feast of laughter. Feed me lobster on the rocks. After I’ve had my fill then, and only then, rock me to sleep by the salt salt sea. I’m ready. I’m on my way, home sweet home.
Bullets and Books
I work in a building that could either have bullets or books on any given day. It’s supposed to have books, but more often than not, we find evidence of books and bullets. This time BBs…better known as ball bearings shot from an air gun. Here’s the weirdest thing – evidence suggests the shots came from outside the building yet, a CO2 cartridge was found inside the building. Were the kids having a game of BB tag, shooting from both sides of the glass? I can remember that game from my own childhood, drawing blood on some occasions. But, I was 10. We’re talking collegiate here. This is completely different. What in the world was going on?
If the walls of where I work could talk I’m sure I would hear some great stories. I’ve heard rumors the building is haunted. I like that idea. Some say they hear the high heels of a woman walk above their heads. I say it’s a man, his namesake displaced… so he wanders. I’ve heard theories the building is at war with itself. I believe that. One side of the building can get up to 100 degrees while the opposite end stays cooler than 50. One side is dark and depressed, the other light and happy. Definitely a personality conflict. Feng shui consultants would have a field day. We have Christmas trees up all year long. A few years ago we found a bullet lodged in a wall. From the hole in the opposing window we could track the trajectory, but it didn’t make sense (much like the BB gun evidence). The shooter would have stood at least 35 feet high, or used a step ladder. If anyone had been in the room at the time of the shooting the bullet would have whizzed by high above their heads. It didn’t make sense.
But, nothing in my building makes sense. Not the crazy colors on walls, not the leaks in the ceiling. Ghosts that walk the halls, kids that shoot holes in windows and someone who steals signs with the word ‘oral’ in them. Some days are more confusing than others, but, the odd thing is, there’s nowhere else I would rather be – it feels like home. Oddly enough.
What’s with Anne?
I don’t know why, but my Anne Frank blog is getting mad traffic. Is it because it was tagged as “not a review” on LibraryThing? I don’t think so. It was getting hits before I drew attention to it’s reviewless state. I have no clue what’s going on with Anne. Like over 1,150 hits since it was first written. Is that normal? Especially for something “not a review”… Especially something coming from my head?
If I really think about it, the same thing happened with a blog called Snot. Innocently enough I wrote about running in 12 degree weather and the interesting thing snot does when it leaves the warmth of your nose and tries to trickle down your ice cold face. It was a weird blog because all I could really focus on was sirsy between my ears and the ice cold snot on my face. I got into detail because I was fixated on how crazy the mucus was making me. For some unknown reason Snot became so popular I got a complex about its existence. I ended up changing the blog’s name and hoping it’s popularity would die off. It’s not that I didn’t want Snot be so wanted. I just didn’t want to feel so exposed. The whole thing was sort of freaky. Same thing is happening with Anne…only this time I don’t want to shut Anne up. I like what I’ve had to say for her. I’ve liked how people have responded to it. The popularity just a little weird.
Revisiting Me
Every once in awhile I will reread something from yesteryear and ask myself how far have I come from the person who wrote this? How far away from me am I now? Do I still carry myself with me? It’s like taking my own temperature, reading my own pulse. I like to go back just one year to the day, or two years to the day. Never random until recently; lately, I find myself reading my own stats page – that “top posts and pages” list. Know what I’m talking about? I’ll see something vaguely familiar and curiosity gets the better of me (as it always does). Like the blog called Kill. What was that all about? I don’t remember writing anything called “Kill” so, …was that really me? Then I’ll click on it and have to read it like a stranger. To tell you the truth, I’m fascinated. I find myself asking myself what made me write that? Who was I mad at? and why did I have to write so cryptically angrily that I can’t even remember my own rantcode? WTF? From there I go on to try to figure out what made this particular blog come to the surface. Why is it on the list? It cracks me up, truth be known. Take the search for Tyler for example. “Drum Save” came back up for air because someone searched for Tyler. Go figure. I’m grateful because without that search, in truth, I never would have revisited me.
That Young
When I was little I thought the world revolved around an ocean. I thought I was brave if I went beyond the rocks and out to what I considered the sea. Little did I know the rocks were more to be afraid of. Little did I know of their drowning potential beneath the waves. This is what I thought of danger.
When I was little I thought hugs and kisses were hidden in chocolate. Frosting disguised as an i’ll always love you treat. I thought if I ate real slow and savored every bite that meant I loved you back. And we could make it last forever. Little did I know about the human heart. Little did I know about how you felt. This is what I thought of love.
When I was little I thought I knew. I would row my boat upon the waves, sunburnt shoulders, calloused fingertips, sand and salt in my hair. Unafraid of the rocks. I would eat my chocolate slow. Sticky fingers, candy lips, chocolate chin. Unaware of your heart.
To be that young.
Loss for Words
“Scary thought. Old habits die hard. Old habits don’t die easily. Whatever. You get the picture. I don’t change. No matter how much I want to.”
I wrote that sitting in a Saturn dealership after getting someone fired over three years ago. Good things happen for a reason. If —–never got fired I never would have met —–…Weird to think that life works in that way, especially when you don’t know it will actually be that way. Or something like that. It’s not that I wanted —- to get fired. It’s just when you end up doing someone else’s job all the time you start to think maybe they should pay you for it, or at least stop pretending “they” are doing all the work. Whatever. It came down to just that. I stopped covering for someone and suddenly the cover was blown. It’s hard to do the work when you don’t know how in the first place. You can only be the great pretender for so long. Someone’s gonna figure you out sooner or later.
What I discovered on that cold day nearly three years ago is that I’m a pushover. I care too much. Like I said then I’ll say today: some things never change.
Don’t Get Out Much
I’m a snob when it comes to some sites and my active “participation” (for lack of a better word). Take Flickr for example. I don’t peruse any other pictures except my friends. Aside from that I don’t search for much except pics of my hometown. Looking at someone else’s holiday doesn’t interest me unless I recognize the place. I rarely comment on other people’s snapshots and I don’t belong to many “groups” or place myself on any maps.
Then, there’s that Library Thingy. People have tagged my library as “interesting” and have invited me to become a member of different groups. I’m flattered by the interest and I always accept the group invitations. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I shouldn’t be flattered because I don’t seek out interesting libraries of others. Maybe I shouldn’t accept invitations to join groups because I never take part in their discussions. I’m like the silent partner. I’m there but I never contribute. Truthfully, I’m waiting for the moderators to kick me out for lack of conversation…or something.
Same goes for myspace. I got a space. Got my picture and my profile and everything…even got “my” song. Except the whole thing’s private. No one can see it unless you’re already a “friend.” I don’t seek out comments, messages, profiles, pictures of people I don’t know, or think I might know, or even the ones I think I want to get to know. I occasionally return messages to my “friends” and pray they didn’t take it personally if I didn’t leave them a glittering “love ya lots” comment on Valentine’s Day. I’m just not that into it.
With all of these sites here’s what happens: I log in, I do my thing and I log back out again.
But. But, I have to tell you about this”revelation” I had. It happened here, on WordPressSpace and it involves my sudden, yet rewarding, participation. To be honest, I think I have a total of four friends who actively blog on this site. No, I take that back. Make that two friends because two left. Wait. One friend had more than one blog. Does that count? Nevermind…Anyway, my “blog surfer” page was looking a little anemic so I decided, for the first time ever, I would use that little arrow on the top righthand side of my blog. You know, the “go to next random blog” feature. I think I arrowed past four or five “god is great” blogs, three or four “watch my kid grow” blogs, at least eight political blahblahblah blogs, two or three knitting blogs (and here I almost stopped until I realized how hardcore these knit nuts really are), until finally I found writing so amazing I stopped to hang out, even scrolling back through the archives. Inspirational stuff. I have to say it, I love the way this person writes. Absolutely love it. I haven’t had the guts to find out if its a him or her who has so much talent, but you can bet I added this mystery to my blog surfer.
For once I explored outside my page, my involvement with a site. In return I found something rewarding. I should get out more often!
ps~ since writing this I have added another blog onto my list of interesting. I took my own advice and found a funny stranger.
Reviewer Rotten-ly
I shouldn’t care what strangers say about me.
I should say that again.
I should not care what strangers say about me!
Yet, I do.
There. I said it.
I care. I definitely do.
Here’s why: I was cruising around my LibraryThing page, noticed a little “thumbs up” icon on certain reviews & got curious. What did that little icon mean and had it ever been applied to a review of mine? Hmmm….This is where I should have remembered the little saying about curiosity killing the cat because while searching my own reviews for that “thumbs up” icon I came across a review that had “tagged” as not a review. It was like a big, fat warning to all the professional reviewers out there, a flashing sign that read: “hey guys, don’t waste your time reading this horseshit. It’s not a real review.” Okay, so no one actually said that…but, that’s what it felt like. Not a review. Defenses up, demeaning name-calling at the ready: jerks…snobs! Who did they think they were? Then, I went back and read the post in question…Whomever tagged it was right. In the traditional sense it’s definitely NOT a review. See for yourself. Yet, the tag still stung. It’s like being called out as a fraud; no Great Oz. I have been tempted to go back and write a real review, something academically sterile and boring to compensate. I feel guilty because here I am, in the Early Review program and I break all the rules for writing a traditional review: You are supposed to review the plot: one, keeping first person voice out of it, and two, you’re not supposed to quote text. Two things I do all the time.
There is a disclaimer on my site that states I don’t review books in the traditional manner, but rather as proof that I took the time to read something for the BookLust Challenge. So, what now? Maybe I should write a traditional review for LibraryThing and leave my quoting and blathering for this site only???? I’m still pondering that….and sort of practicing that. LT gets the straight up this-is-the-book and WP gets ThisIsWhatTheBookMeantToMe. More work? Yes, but it will be worth it to not be so reveiwer rotten.
By the way …the “thumbs up” icon that got me in trouble in the first place? It was an was-this-review-helpful? indicator… Go figure.
Wanna See My Boarding Pass?
FYI – like getting plants tangled up in my shoes, I am capable of snagging maps on the inside zipper of my purse. Good thing it wasn’t stuck on the boarding pass. You’ll soon see why (note the boarding pass just above the captured map):
On the way down to Tampa I needed to show my boarded pass once and relinquish it only to get on the plane. Boarding the plane was done in a haphazzard sort of way. I was group A #46 and when they called group A numbers 35-60 we just moo’ed our way on board. No big deal.
Not so on the way home. Tampa is tough. I needed my boarding pass four different times. I should have stapled it to my forehead. Really. I had it out while waiting in the winding, maze-like line. (That line reminded me of the lines at Six Flags only without the tvs and fun.) I’m not a seasoned traveler so I carefully watched the other passengers and followed their leads. Because of them, I knew to take off my shoes, have my picture ID ready and to go where I was told. But, after that I was a bumbling idiot. I didn’t know I needed the id and boarding pass out for a third time at the security scanners. I had put it back in my purse (which was now going through the xray machine). The security guy wouldn’t let me walk through the gate without the pass, but made no move to retrieve my purse for me. I stood there rooted to the spot, confused as hell, wondering what to do. Passengers moved around me, shooting pitying glances my way. Maybe they were thinking Stupid. I know I was. Finally the security gate guy said, “come on through, BUT I need to see that boarding pass the second it comes out.” I practically sprinted through the gate and anxiously peered down the conveyor belt waiting for my bucket of shoes and purse to emerge. A trickle of sweat meandered down my back. My bare feet embarrassed me. As soon as the bucket started to show itself I reached in for it – I swear – only to facilitate the process and produce that boarding pass faster. “Don’t reach!” someone barked at me. “Okay!” I practically yelped and jumped back. If I was flustered before now I was a basket case. Finally, out came the bucket (on its own), out came my purse and, out came the boarding pass. Frustrated and extremely embarrassed I shoved it at the security guy who barely gave it a single glance then handed it back. What the fukc was that? I could feel my face go even redder. Suddenly, a voice behind me boomed “whose bag is this?” I turned around…of course it was mine. “I just need to look in here…” Mr. Security’s voice trailed off. Now what? I had dirty underwear, stinky socks…what could possibly be threatening (besides the odor)? A candle. A lavender candle. I apologized for it like an idiot and slithered away, hellbent on finding my gate. If there was ever a time for a shot of tequila, this was it. Make that a double shot. Three…four….
Finally, at the gate (the right one this time) I started to relax. I sent a few text messages to let people know I was on my way home and finally let myself breathe normally again. I didn’t even try to find my new boarding number sign (A45). However, when it came time to board the number process was much easier than the last time. Mr. Loudspeaker treated us like idiots, even taking the time to explain what numerical order meant. He wanted to make sure we knew 44 was directly ahead of 45 (who should be directly in front of 46). Duh. He must have gone over it at least a dozen times, telling us to talk to one another to figure out who stood where. Don’t be shy, he says. Riiiight. I was just praying no one recognized me from the security line. Like school kids waiting to go on a field trip we waited in a perfect line. 44 in front of 45 in front of 46. I felt like asking the guy in front of me, “hey. Wanna see my boarding pass?”
For Heather
Would you believe I have no idea who this person is? Absolutely no clue. This is what I do know. I keep my promises. Or, I try to. Really. This is Heather. I don’t know a lot about her. But, I think I know the best thing about her: she’s doing that Hike for Discovery I talked about oh so long ago. I don’t think I need to point out that I never did it. Running 13.1 miles and doing a “doozie” on my knee scared me bad enough I’ve been glued to my recliner for the last year and a half. But. But, but, Heather found my blog about the desire to do something good and she called me out on it. So, I donated. Heather, I have no clue who you are but I applaud you and your cause. Good good good luck. If you find this and read it, hike for my grandmothers, Bessie and Irene. Both cancer victims, their absence is my everlasting ache.
If anyone else wants to help Heather, please go here. Do it! Every little bit counts. Really.
Here’s the deal: The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society has been circling my soul for some time now. Everything is coming together in one perfect storm. One crazy desire to run again, to race again, to train again with TNT. Could I? It’s all adding up. Seeing their faces in Florida, finding courage in an amazing friend, subtle support from family. It’s all building to something bigger. Could I be getting closer to something bigger than myself? Could I? Should I?
Love, Redefined
From the moment my kisa started dating me seriously I begged him to not acknowledge Valentine’s Day. I asked him to avoid candy and cards. I assured him I would refuse gifts of fluffy bears and flowers. I’m just not into it, I told him. He waited until the day after The Day and sent flowers. I would have sent them back, but not for the card which read “Happy Friday?” I think I ranted as much last year about this weird “holiday” (I’m too lazy to link to it so if you are feeling adventurous, you can look for it).
Anyway, this year one of my oldest and bestest friends sent me a Valentine. Humph. She and I stand reunited on the whole gooshy romance thing. We have the same views on children. We are pretty pragmatic when it comes to prissy, pretty things. In short, we don’t need Hallmark to define love for us. We have our own interpretations. So, imagine my surprise to see her card in the mail.
Yup, this is the card. Yup, that’s my friend. I couldn’t ask for a better laugh at a time when I’m usually scoffing at the whole love thing. She gets me. For over 20 years. I’ve needed her humor, her spirit, her “fiestiness” as one would say. I am lucky to have her in my life.
So, to my sage, wild, “something strong” friend, Happy Valentine’s Day. For what it’s worth, I love you.
ps~ 25 years from now we’re going on a road-trip; flashing other motorists is optional.
Seriously Southwest, Silly Me
Southwest Airlines is trying to take their seating sorrows seriously. How do I begin to describe gate 4?
First of all, there are a bunch of poles everywhere. All these poles are topped with numbers. For example, I sit facing the one stating “36-40 41-45.” If I follow the logic of the poles I’m in the wrong seat. I should be one seat over…or something. I understand the thinking. I think. Rather than a free-for-all when group A is called (and that’s my group) we now have sections so, in theory, does that mean smaller free-for-alls?
I wrote the above on my way down to Tampa. My boarding number was A46. How wrong I was…on oh so many levels. First of all, and I’ll admit this clearly: I wasn’t at gate 4. I was at 5. I wrote all of the above while waiting at the wrong gate and I blatently blame it on the poles. At gate 4 I saw numbers 1-10, 11-15, 16-20, 21-25 but nothing beyond that. Walking further I saw the numbers start all over again. 1-10 and so on. So now I’m confused. Keep in mind, I’m looking up at the numbers and not at the gate numbers so I managed to walk past my gate. Obviously. Once I realized I had gone too far (when the numbers started over again) I circled back, but this time on the other side of the poles. Magically, there were the higher numbers I had been looking for. I sat down when I saw 36-40, 41-45. At gate 5.
My second mistake was thinking my numbers designated where you sat as well as how you boarded the plane. I joked with passengers around me that I hoped I wouldn’t get in trouble for sitting in the wrong waiting area chair. No wonder they looked at me funny. Boarding numbers are just that, b o a r d i n g numbers, as in, how you get on the plane. Don’t worry, Ms Klutz Me would give them more to laugh at. About 20 minutes later someone came over the intercom and started announcing the boarding of flight something-er-rather…to Baltimore. As in Maryland. Startled, I looked behind me only to see I was sitting at gate 5 and not 4. Oh hell. Pretending to need the ladies room, I asked someone close to me where it was. I could tell she was confused. We were about to board, she knows I’m A46, we’ve talked about this and now I want the ladies’ room??? Nevertheless, she pointed it out and watched me go, a bemused look on her face. I wonder what she thought when I never came back, nor boarded that plane to Baltimore?
Hello Again Hello
All of this getting ready for the run has got me thinking I’m in the wrong spot. I should be out there, too. I should kicking my own ass on a regular basis…just like my friend. While I wil cheer her on tomorrow I can’t help but feel just a little jealous, a little That Should Be Me.
There is something to be said for finding your way. There is something to be applauded when, after you have found your way, you actually go your own way. Finding the way and actually taking it are two very different things. I think I needed to come to Florida to figure that out. We talked love and relationships, comedy and tragedy, heart and soul and the one thing that remains clear to me is this: live for today. Don’t think you should wait until something better comes along because, who knows? maybe it never will. You need to make it better if no one else will. Period.
We saw an accident today. It happened in the blink of an eye. I was on the phone and wasn’t paying much attention. A decent witness I definitely was not. I couldn’t even tell you who hit first. All I know is that I watch too much crime tv so when I saw the reddish liquid streaming from the injured truck all I could think was “fireball explosion” and pure panic set in. My heart raced even though I continued to talk on the phone. I don’t know if worry was anywhere near my voice, or if I sounded miles away from my concern. All I know is this: in an instance two vehicles collided. Where were they going? Doesn’t matter. They’ll all be late now. They are lucky to be alive.
That’s my point. Life can change you. Or you can change your life. Hello again, hello.
It’s Not the Leaving
I leave for Florida today. I haven’t flown by myself in some time. I can’t remember the last time I got on an airplane with just me & myself for company. We’ll be okay, I’m sure.
As blogs usually go, I tend to write about what’s on top of the junk heap I call my brain. I single out the one idea or thought that’s making the most noise, the one that’s banging around the most, begging to be let out. Then I write. It’s not the leaving that I’m thinking about. It’s you.
Dear You,
You say I have some responsibility for this one-foot-in-front-of-another thing we call running. You say that I had something to do with putting you at the starting gate. If that’s the case, I am proud to be a part of your latest challenge. Hell, I’m proud of you. Period. You have always been that HellOnWheels woman that I admire. Even without the run you have grace, strength, power and passion. I am proud of you for just wanting this challenge, never mind actually taking it!
The run is one thing, but I want to talk about The Race. I know you are nervous. But, I know something you have forgotten: You Can Do This! I’ll tell you something else – this is how much I believe in you: I almost didn’t make my plane reservation last month. You wanna know why? Because next year you will be scoffing at 21 kilometers and you’ll be saying “42.2? Bring it on!” and I’ll be hauling my ass back down to Tampa to watch you run The Big One. This little 13 miler, my dear, is just a stepping stone for someone as stubborn as you. Next year you’ll want 26.2…That’s how much I believe in you.
So, I’ll say it again. You can do this. No fear. No pain. Nothing but courage. I’ll see you at the finish line.
Love, me
~*LunaSea*~ 