Nonsense…
I have googled myself, but I have never emailed myself. I am emailing myself to see if it will work, which I cannot imagine why it would not. I could certainly write a letter to myself, put it in an envelope with a stamp and mail it and receive it at my home (probably the very next day). Why would email be any different? More mental masturbation for a mind in need of stimulation!
I have decided that ignorance is not just "bliss". Ignorance is utterly orgasmic. Ignorance is the best thing that could happen to someone. I am spacy, but not ignorant and that is a true handicap. It is like the book Flowers for Algernon. I am fully aware of how incredibly spacey I am becoming and yet I cannot stop the deterioration. Yet, as my close friend DF (all friends will be disguised poorly by my using their initials instead of their full names) once said, “B, you are the dumbest smart person I have ever known.” I can see through people and read situations and analyze dysfunctional families all at the speed of sound. I have a heightened intuitive sense that allows me to tell if someone is lying, or hiding pain, or trying to build themselves up by tearing others down. It is a gift. Perhaps I am some sort of savant, because the other side of my intelligence is as shallow as a teaspoon of water.
My life often includes items similar to the ones found on the following “To Do List” which I successfully completed over the last several weeks:
Forget to pick up kids at various times throughout the week. Check
Forget to take kids to various lessons (piano, skating, tutor). Check
Meet the same person 15 times, go out to dinner with him/her and still manage to forget his/her name. Check
Leave bills unpaid for no reason. Check
Burn grilled cheese in toaster over. Check
Overboil eggs until all water is gone and house fire alarm is triggered. Check
Leave empty house without closing garage door. Check
Don't show up for plans made and written on both calendar carried in purse and hung on wall in kitchen. Check.
Never ever remember anyone's birthday, including future sister-in-law who has the same birthday as I do. Check
Stare blankly at Carpet Cleaners ringing the doorbell while having no recollection whatsoever of calling them and making an appointment. Check.
Tell everyone you want to be a writer and then spend all my time daydreaming about how unproductive I am. Check
I have finally figured out my true calling, and why I feel like the ultimate failure. It has to do with following your own true desires. But first you have to know what your own true desires are. If you do not find and follow your true calling, you are destined to despair.
I Want to Sing in a Rock and Roll Band. Which is why I will eternally be unhappy. I don't want to be "with" Bruce Springsteen. I want to BE Bruce Sprinsteen. Does he hear the music and write the words at the same time. Why can't I "hear" the music in a way that would allow me to understand how it is MADE. I can only hear it to enjoy it and be emotionally moved by it. I cannot carry a tune, find a beat, clap my hands at the same time as everyone else in the audience, yet I know deep down I was suppose to be Debra Harry or Linda Ronstadt. How did I screw this up? By not being born with the talent necessary to pursue my dreams, that is how! Who can I blame? Not myself! I did not make me. I came as I am, birthday suit and all. No, this is a cruel joke being played out by some higher being. As a child I reveled in entertaining my family with endless hours of singing and dancing. I never realized they were just being polite and I was a sucky six year old boring them.
Now I have my own children. Which must be the fate of all fallen rock stars who were not able to sing, a life sentence in motherhood. I hear the dreaded words “watch me” as they attempt to entertain themselves on the trampoline, shooting baskets, jumping rope, performing dance routines they made up and singing songs I hate. Why do children need an audience? It just sets them up for failure like it did me. Delusions of grandeur grow like weeds on my front lawn. I give up. Next time, I am going to make my children watch me! That will teach them a lesson or two.
So you are probably wondering how the hell I got off onto that tangent after starting an entry about how spacey I am, but I am afraid I cannot answer that question because I don’t remember. What day is it??
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Dinner Time
(Please note, I wrote this several years ago when the war in Iraq was at its height of casualties.)
Family Dinner is an oxymoron to me. Eating together as a family at home has not been an experience I ever enjoyed or struggled to have, but it certainly is food for thought....
While growing up, eating in our family was a solitary endeavor. I came home first from school, so I ate first. We had a small kitchen with a round table for two and we were a family of 5. My mother was constantly cooking and serving us individually as we arrived home from school or work. My father required total quiet and efficient service during his meal time. Eating at the dining room table was never a consideration. The "dining room" was reserved for doing homework.
Unfortunately, as time marched on our family grew smaller rather than larger because of the untimely passing of my father. Yet, our eating habits never changed. My mother, my two brothers and I still took turns. Yet, eating alone was never lonely. We had added the all important tiny television to the kitchen counter. That TV became each of our dinner companions. We were silent as we took our turns eating. Over the years, I ate dinner with local television anchor teams, or Walter Cronkite. Sometimes I ate slowly so I could hear how many soldiers died in Viet Nam, watch the colorfully clothed protestors marching, or check on the weather reports during the unpredicatable Chicago winters.
Now I have my own family and a big kitchen with plenty of room for our four family memembers to sit together if we so chose. Perhaps because of the way I gew up I never really try to create the "family dinner" I saw on television shows like Little House on the Prairie, My Three Sons or the Patridge Family. My husband works long hours and often grabs a sandwich at Subway on his way home. I do not allow my children to watch the evening news. It is simply too disturbing and difficutl to explain. They are unable to sit together peacefully for any length of time anyway. I have no desire to be a referee or to try and explain what war means and how we got in one yet again during my short life time.
Luckily, the large screen television in the family room is easily visible from our kitchen. My son, the older child dominates the remote from the kitchen table. Sponge Bob is my choice for his dinner companion. He would prefer cartoons filled with gross humor and animated violence. My daughter, the youngest, retreats through the doorway at the other end of the kitchen to the living room where she is served on a TV tray placed in front of an old blue leather recliner. Her television is smaller but she has her own remote and that is all she cares about. We rarely eat the same foods. My son sticks to pizza and bagel dogs. My daughter prefers cereal or macaroni and cheese. I sit and read at the kitchen island, eating salad and intermittently wondering how many people have died in Iraq and Afghanastan thus far.
When we first moved out to the the suburbs in 1997 we were invited to dinner by our next door neighbors. There were two parents and five children. All the kids had some role in preparing the meal or setting the table. Everyone sat down together, ate the same food, and talked, sharing the day's activities along with the meal. It looked like a lot of work, but the effort seemed worth it. Those were the best behaved children I had ever seen. They obviously knew the value of a family dinner.
We were amazed, but sadly unchanged. Just yesterday, we quietly took our places at Subway, at the kitchen table, at the TV tray in the living room, and at the island and ate in peace and quiet with the exception of some laughter from Sponge Bob. There never has been friendly conversation at the dinner table of either the family of my childhood or the family of my adulthood. This time around I managed to turn the war off, at least on the television set if not in the real world.
Family Dinner is an oxymoron to me. Eating together as a family at home has not been an experience I ever enjoyed or struggled to have, but it certainly is food for thought....
While growing up, eating in our family was a solitary endeavor. I came home first from school, so I ate first. We had a small kitchen with a round table for two and we were a family of 5. My mother was constantly cooking and serving us individually as we arrived home from school or work. My father required total quiet and efficient service during his meal time. Eating at the dining room table was never a consideration. The "dining room" was reserved for doing homework.
Unfortunately, as time marched on our family grew smaller rather than larger because of the untimely passing of my father. Yet, our eating habits never changed. My mother, my two brothers and I still took turns. Yet, eating alone was never lonely. We had added the all important tiny television to the kitchen counter. That TV became each of our dinner companions. We were silent as we took our turns eating. Over the years, I ate dinner with local television anchor teams, or Walter Cronkite. Sometimes I ate slowly so I could hear how many soldiers died in Viet Nam, watch the colorfully clothed protestors marching, or check on the weather reports during the unpredicatable Chicago winters.
Now I have my own family and a big kitchen with plenty of room for our four family memembers to sit together if we so chose. Perhaps because of the way I gew up I never really try to create the "family dinner" I saw on television shows like Little House on the Prairie, My Three Sons or the Patridge Family. My husband works long hours and often grabs a sandwich at Subway on his way home. I do not allow my children to watch the evening news. It is simply too disturbing and difficutl to explain. They are unable to sit together peacefully for any length of time anyway. I have no desire to be a referee or to try and explain what war means and how we got in one yet again during my short life time.
Luckily, the large screen television in the family room is easily visible from our kitchen. My son, the older child dominates the remote from the kitchen table. Sponge Bob is my choice for his dinner companion. He would prefer cartoons filled with gross humor and animated violence. My daughter, the youngest, retreats through the doorway at the other end of the kitchen to the living room where she is served on a TV tray placed in front of an old blue leather recliner. Her television is smaller but she has her own remote and that is all she cares about. We rarely eat the same foods. My son sticks to pizza and bagel dogs. My daughter prefers cereal or macaroni and cheese. I sit and read at the kitchen island, eating salad and intermittently wondering how many people have died in Iraq and Afghanastan thus far.
When we first moved out to the the suburbs in 1997 we were invited to dinner by our next door neighbors. There were two parents and five children. All the kids had some role in preparing the meal or setting the table. Everyone sat down together, ate the same food, and talked, sharing the day's activities along with the meal. It looked like a lot of work, but the effort seemed worth it. Those were the best behaved children I had ever seen. They obviously knew the value of a family dinner.
We were amazed, but sadly unchanged. Just yesterday, we quietly took our places at Subway, at the kitchen table, at the TV tray in the living room, and at the island and ate in peace and quiet with the exception of some laughter from Sponge Bob. There never has been friendly conversation at the dinner table of either the family of my childhood or the family of my adulthood. This time around I managed to turn the war off, at least on the television set if not in the real world.
Oooops, I am not a cougar
I wish I was a cougar, but I guess what I really am is a middle aged nerd that does not understand the real meaning of cougar. My idea for cougar beat magazine is all wrong. I would be way too embarrassed to be naked with someone 20 years younger than I am. So I guess I need to change the idea for the magazine. What animal am I? If I am not a cougar, I need to be identified as some other mammal. The magazine needs a hook. As noted before, I want glossy posters for my bedroom, but not necessarily of 20 something males. I often like the 40 year olds (they are still 9 years younger, so would that qualify me as a cougar?). If I don't fit into Tiger Beat demographics and I do not think I could be a reliable cougar then I need a different animal identity. Monkey Beat? Maybe, it worked for a psuedo group once before. And even better Davy Jones was one of the original crushes I had back in the day when I did fit into the Tiger Beat demographic. They may not have been the Beatles but they were okay. I am not aspiring for any literary prizes here so if I modeled the magazine after another impersonation so closely related to the theme, it might work. If there are copy rights involved I could always go with the Chimpanzee Beat, or the Gorilla Beat (for women who like hairy men or women who refuse to shave under their arms). I am still looking to "beef up" the staff, so interested parties need to reply to this Blog ASAP before we all qualify for AARP (which in my case is only 6 years away!)
Friday, April 17, 2009
Cougar Beat
Cougar Beat!
I have a great idea for a new magazine aimed at frustrated AND sarcastic house wives. It would be so much more realistic than all those Ladies Home Journal type magazines, not to mention television shows that are "suppose" to be reality based showing housewives from New York, or California. Let's get real people!
It would be a combination of Tiger Beat, Mad Magazine, The Onion. We need glossy pictures and
"posters included" sections of Hugh Laurie, Daniel Craig, Pierce Brosnan (I must have a thing for Brits). I want to wall paper my bedroom like I did way back when. But instead of David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman and Donny Osmond (although Donny has some good staying power in the looks department and could be grandfathered in), I would use men who better reflect my mature sophisticated adult taste.
Do you think my husband will mind? If I position the poster of Hugh Laurie just right I will be able to discreetly open only one eye during love making. I guess I could play fair and let my husband put up some posters too? Who would he pick? Who cares? Not me.
The glossy, picture filled magazine would also be known for what it absolutely will NOT include: No damn recipes, no promises on how to improve your body, do your stupid make up, get better in bed, make him better in bed, raise concientious kids, arts and crafts for adults or kids. Instead lets make up funny quizzes like "What Kind: What kind of mother are you? A. I forgot to take my son to his piano lesson today.
B. I ran the dishwasher with only 2 dishes in it.
C. I ate a bag of pretzels while typing a stupid blog
D. I got my nails done, did lunch with friends and went shopping.
I am A, B, and C. I hate anyone who answered D, and they know who they are, and they are not the market for my new magazine. I need a fantasy life because this real one is just too much. I think I need the life of whoever would have answered D. Those are the women on those housewife shows and that is why I cannot relate to any of them. Real housewives would not be nearly as boring!
Other samples "What Kind" quiz:
What kind of wife are you?
What kind of daughter are you?
What kind of friend are you?
What kind of self obessessed materialistic superficial reality watching back stabbing friend are you? (for those "friends" we all end up with but don't know how we got, you know the ones without the return receipts).
So, if anyone would like to join me in coordinating this new magazine and feeding the hungry dark monster mother hiding in all of us, please contact me. I can't wait to hear about how we never "emotionally" graduated high school and the stories of backstabbing, social climbing, women still looking to be popular.
You know your popular if:
A. You were invited to an adult party on a Saturday night.
B. Your kid is invited to a birthday party every weekend.
C. You are always in a group of friends on School Night talking about the latest whatever
D. Your cell phone rings all the time.
E. You are not sitting alone writing a stupid blog and eating a bag of pretzels.
See ya later. I gotta go give someone 140 dollars to highlight my hair. What recession??? I am about to start a successful magazine. Cougar Beat: Roaarrrrrrr
I have a great idea for a new magazine aimed at frustrated AND sarcastic house wives. It would be so much more realistic than all those Ladies Home Journal type magazines, not to mention television shows that are "suppose" to be reality based showing housewives from New York, or California. Let's get real people!
It would be a combination of Tiger Beat, Mad Magazine, The Onion. We need glossy pictures and
"posters included" sections of Hugh Laurie, Daniel Craig, Pierce Brosnan (I must have a thing for Brits). I want to wall paper my bedroom like I did way back when. But instead of David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman and Donny Osmond (although Donny has some good staying power in the looks department and could be grandfathered in), I would use men who better reflect my mature sophisticated adult taste.
Do you think my husband will mind? If I position the poster of Hugh Laurie just right I will be able to discreetly open only one eye during love making. I guess I could play fair and let my husband put up some posters too? Who would he pick? Who cares? Not me.
The glossy, picture filled magazine would also be known for what it absolutely will NOT include: No damn recipes, no promises on how to improve your body, do your stupid make up, get better in bed, make him better in bed, raise concientious kids, arts and crafts for adults or kids. Instead lets make up funny quizzes like "What Kind: What kind of mother are you? A. I forgot to take my son to his piano lesson today.
B. I ran the dishwasher with only 2 dishes in it.
C. I ate a bag of pretzels while typing a stupid blog
D. I got my nails done, did lunch with friends and went shopping.
I am A, B, and C. I hate anyone who answered D, and they know who they are, and they are not the market for my new magazine. I need a fantasy life because this real one is just too much. I think I need the life of whoever would have answered D. Those are the women on those housewife shows and that is why I cannot relate to any of them. Real housewives would not be nearly as boring!
Other samples "What Kind" quiz:
What kind of wife are you?
What kind of daughter are you?
What kind of friend are you?
What kind of self obessessed materialistic superficial reality watching back stabbing friend are you? (for those "friends" we all end up with but don't know how we got, you know the ones without the return receipts).
So, if anyone would like to join me in coordinating this new magazine and feeding the hungry dark monster mother hiding in all of us, please contact me. I can't wait to hear about how we never "emotionally" graduated high school and the stories of backstabbing, social climbing, women still looking to be popular.
You know your popular if:
A. You were invited to an adult party on a Saturday night.
B. Your kid is invited to a birthday party every weekend.
C. You are always in a group of friends on School Night talking about the latest whatever
D. Your cell phone rings all the time.
E. You are not sitting alone writing a stupid blog and eating a bag of pretzels.
See ya later. I gotta go give someone 140 dollars to highlight my hair. What recession??? I am about to start a successful magazine. Cougar Beat: Roaarrrrrrr
Friday, April 10, 2009
Joy
Could it be I found my muse? I was picturing a female mentor type since I have always been a girl's girl. I only liked men for sex, which is how I know being gay is not a choice issue. If it were it would be a no brainer for me. I prefer women in every other way. I guess this can be added to the anecdotal evidence supporting being gay starts at birth. But my muse is a man, a friend of the family. I am inspired by Paul, the Apostle (his new nick name). Now I have to go and learn the New Testament and find out who the heck Paul was in a historical sense. It sounds like it could provide a new thread for the writing. I guess I should be worried about how this writing will make me look in the eyes of strangers. Or even worse, how will I look in the eyes of the people who I know and who I least want to see this. I cannot choose who will read these words so if I insist on living by the sword then I guess I must risk dieing of humiliation and exposure by the sword. Because we have all learned Words are just Swords with an S in the front of them. Why have I chosen Paul as my muse? It is his Fearlessness that is inspiring me to come out of the closet. No, I am not gay. I have already established that my preference is for men in that one area. The closet I am exiting actually has a revolving door. It is admitting I want to be a writer. I am a writer and even more importantly: I am a MEDIOCRE writer! There I said it. I don't care if anyone thinks I stink. I still get to write. I get to expose myself to friends and enemies alike (you know who you are) and know the exposure will not kill me. I doubt it will make me stronger. So I will consider this an experiment of sorts to see exactly what the effects will be.
As noted in my previous entry, Paul asked me what brings me joy more than anything else.
My reply:
What brings me joy? I have been trying to figure that out for 48 years. At first it was a bottle of milk and a clean diaper. Then it was spending time with my dad. Then my dad died. Then it was riding my bike around the neighborhood. Then I found cigarettes. Then I found pot. Then I found alcohol. Then I found sex, and then I found more alcohol. Then I found Depression and endless hours of telelvion. Then I found a VCR and video tapes so I could watch movies all by myself in my living room while my mother was alone in her bedroom in the apartment we shared in the building she owned. We were alone together a lot. Okay, so the joy certainly disappeared somewhere in all that. I guess I must search for what brings me joy.
By the way, what is joy???
Could it be I found my muse? I was picturing a female mentor type since I have always been a girl's girl. I only liked men for sex, which is how I know being gay is not a choice issue. If it were it would be a no brainer for me. I prefer women in every other way. I guess this can be added to the anecdotal evidence supporting being gay starts at birth. But my muse is a man, a friend of the family. I am inspired by Paul, the Apostle (his new nick name). Now I have to go and learn the New Testament and find out who the heck Paul was in a historical sense. It sounds like it could provide a new thread for the writing. I guess I should be worried about how this writing will make me look in the eyes of strangers. Or even worse, how will I look in the eyes of the people who I know and who I least want to see this. I cannot choose who will read these words so if I insist on living by the sword then I guess I must risk dieing of humiliation and exposure by the sword. Because we have all learned Words are just Swords with an S in the front of them. Why have I chosen Paul as my muse? It is his Fearlessness that is inspiring me to come out of the closet. No, I am not gay. I have already established that my preference is for men in that one area. The closet I am exiting actually has a revolving door. It is admitting I want to be a writer. I am a writer and even more importantly: I am a MEDIOCRE writer! There I said it. I don't care if anyone thinks I stink. I still get to write. I get to expose myself to friends and enemies alike (you know who you are) and know the exposure will not kill me. I doubt it will make me stronger. So I will consider this an experiment of sorts to see exactly what the effects will be.
As noted in my previous entry, Paul asked me what brings me joy more than anything else.
My reply:
What brings me joy? I have been trying to figure that out for 48 years. At first it was a bottle of milk and a clean diaper. Then it was spending time with my dad. Then my dad died. Then it was riding my bike around the neighborhood. Then I found cigarettes. Then I found pot. Then I found alcohol. Then I found sex, and then I found more alcohol. Then I found Depression and endless hours of telelvion. Then I found a VCR and video tapes so I could watch movies all by myself in my living room while my mother was alone in her bedroom in the apartment we shared in the building she owned. We were alone together a lot. Okay, so the joy certainly disappeared somewhere in all that. I guess I must search for what brings me joy.
By the way, what is joy???
I am starting this Blog today as a way to share the wit and wisdom I have accumulated over the last 48 years. My friend Paul J. told me to share my writing. I wanted to develop and sell cheesy products on television or win the lottery in order to achieve financial success. The problem is I kept coming up with ideas other people had already executed. I asked Paul what what business should I be in:
Promotions
Marketing
Product Development
Prostitution
Help me out here I begged him. Why do I still want to be a peddler like the guy with the truck from the TV show Green Acres. At which point Paul sent me a photo of Dear Mr. Haney and wrote "and by the way you already know the answer. What brings you greater joy than anything else? Seriously?
To which I replied, "didn't you steal that line from Glinda the Good Witch?" I have always had the power, I just needed to learn the lesson that is was inside me the whole time. Which leads me back to the blank page. I hope I can find the answers in these words I plan on stringing together overtime, over space, over the internet.
It is better to have a big butt when learning how to ice skate. A bony but is bad because it doesn't provide a good landing pad. Words to live by.
Promotions
Marketing
Product Development
Prostitution
Help me out here I begged him. Why do I still want to be a peddler like the guy with the truck from the TV show Green Acres. At which point Paul sent me a photo of Dear Mr. Haney and wrote "and by the way you already know the answer. What brings you greater joy than anything else? Seriously?
To which I replied, "didn't you steal that line from Glinda the Good Witch?" I have always had the power, I just needed to learn the lesson that is was inside me the whole time. Which leads me back to the blank page. I hope I can find the answers in these words I plan on stringing together overtime, over space, over the internet.
It is better to have a big butt when learning how to ice skate. A bony but is bad because it doesn't provide a good landing pad. Words to live by.
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