Lawn Mowing Mazdas

Recently, it seems I have created a whole blogging brigade of friends and family.  Fabulous.  However, there's been some story tellin' goin' on that needs some clarification - in other words, it did NOT happen like that!!!

First of which is a blog about my mother's impeccable driving skills.  Somehow her definition of wonderful driving translates into me ruining a brand new pair of Calvin's every time I get in the car with her.  She can offer you a religious experience and a bowel movement with her driving all in the course of one city block.  The story in question (one amongst many) involves us returning home one day after a harrowing trip into town - in my opinion, most - if not all - trips in the Mama Mobile are harrowing, but that's neither here nor there.

I digress...  Since we had been in town most of the day, I was not nearly as drunk or medicated as one needs to be to enjoy a leisurely ride into town with this woman.  I was quite sober, and even more terrified.  Now my mother likes to talk - a lot - almost as much as she likes to drive at Mach 10 and not pay attention to where she is going until we are either there, passing it, or have already passed it 17 times whilst taking what she likes to call "the scenic route."  On this day, we were just about home.  You could almost smell the fish fryin', so I thought I was good.  I had managed to get an actual breath or two in...  I could see the exit.  Moms, however, was NOT seeing the exit.  She was talking.  And NOT slowing down.  I am thinking to myself, "Exit, Ma!  EXIT!"  Just as we are IN LINE with the exit, she realizes that perhaps that might be where we were planning on going.

No worries (to her at least).

At 97 miles an hour here we go!!!  YEE-HAW!!!

Missed the exit!  NO WORRIES!

Missed the City Titties!  NO WORRIES! 

I half expected her to shout "TOWANDA!!!" at the top of her lungs like Evelyn Crouch in the book Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.  I had always expected to die young, but never by Dukes of Hazzarding across an access road and landing on a cow on the side of the road outside of Bubbaville.

Everyone has their time, I guess.

Anyway, across the median we go.  Grass and dirt is flying up everywhere!!!  We miss the big ass sign that says "This is your exit, Crazy Lady" by mere inches.  Had I not been frozen in fear I could have reached out and touched it.  I still have whiplash to this day and a lazy eye that now rotates in an orgasm of fear every time I hear an ignition start up from this ordeal.

Whump-phlunk-BLAM! 

We land on the access road like a giant metal turd shit from the Mothership - screeching and skidding up to the intersection to turn home. 

We finally did in fact make it home.  I fell out of the car and laid in the driveway licking the gravel and weeping in uncontained joy that my life had, in fact, not ended in a dried out patch of grass on Highway 6.

What's that smell???  I think I need to change my britches...

It reminds you what to be thankful for.

Stay tuned for Tales of the Flying Fishstick.  It's a good 'un!

"Oooooohhhh....

... Miss Thing's workin' with some demons there!!!"

~ "Noxeema Jackson (Reggie's Daughter)" from the movie,

 To Wong Foo, Thanks for everything.  - Julie Newmar

Coming Out of the Pain; Umbrella at the Ready

"It's very difficult keeping the line between the past and the present."

- Edith "Little Edie" Beale of Grey Gardens

My life has never been one of luxury. I have never been one to take the easy route - or even known where that route might be if one such exists. The bulk of my life has been a succession of hand offs from whomever wanted me the least to whomever could stand me for the time being. There was never a lot of effort made to actually rectify the problem(s) as much as it was just "Here, you deal with him." As an adult, I am coming to understand just how much that really has shaped who I am and how I deal with things. Or, don't deal with things as the case in point and truth may be. I just walk away. Let it be and watch it fall all to hell and go down in flames. And always from a distance.  Distance being key.  Next.

So the grande finale of questions now is: "What do I do about it?" How do I stop the cycle? It's all I have known - starting with the funny farm; then my grandparents; my sister's father; my mother; my mother's husbands... Nothing was ever permanent. Nothing was ever dealt with. An endless series of shuffle the problem child. If they couldn't beat it out of me or shout me into submission, I was passed off like a hot and fetid potato gone to mush. Even in school they didn't know what to do with me. I was dubbed Gifted & Special (heavy on the special, I think) and handed off to the Retard Teacher(s)... Lot of good that did, too.

I know this now. I recognize it. It has destroyed what life I might have had up until this point and in its wake most of the relationships therein. I just haven't (had) the tools - or even the knowledge of the tools - to begin building something better. I've needed a raft and have been standing knee deep in the river and dying of thirst... Filthy and unable to scrub away the funk. Unable to float away from it all without the fear of drowning in it.

I often feel like I got beat down with the short end of a shit covered stick engulfed in flames. Like it was all denied me before I even got some vague modicum of a chance to have a go at it. I was described today as Gay (which I am - fine - sobeit) as a negative - in contextual comparison to unwed teenage mothers and cutters; and likened to all as being "trashy." It was a big slap in the face - and quite a wake up call. I forget that such is how people view me. Even, apparently, those closest to me. Just yet another in a string of black marks that I haven't much (if any) control over, I guess...

But perhaps, this new found knowledge - this recognition of it all - is my power. Perhaps this is my key. In knowing, maybe I can somehow stop it. No one wanted to deal with me then (not that anything's really changed in that regard). It's a harsh truth. But that was then.

This is my now.

Mine and mine alone.

I needn't anyone to deal with me any longer. I am my own man, standing (or trying to) on my own two feet - albeit a bit wobbly in my stillettos - but hey, you try standing on Size 12 feet in 8 inch heels. I am standing, damn it. (Okay, maybe I am just on hands and knees, and learning to crawl but it's progress.) The Child Called It became The Man Named Dave and he did alright for himself despite it all. He endured horrors not completely dissimilar to my own and came out on the other side. It was a struggle for him as well, but he prevailed. I believe - I hope - that somehow, someday, I can also.

I just don't quite know where to start. I do know now that I WANT to start. I want to begin to end all this horseshit and drama. First instinct, of course, is to start cutting... Break out the knives and start hacking away like a crazed and hungry hunter salivating over a fresh kill... But maybe all those melodramatic razor blade kisses of the past are part of the problem in the first place.

Who knows, really? I find myself in such a vastly different place for this part of the journey - for this leg of the race.

I have followed a hundred and two roads less taken for my entire life.

Perhaps now it's time to put on my waders and big boy britches and start trudging through the ruts that others have made in their own paths to salvation?

Perhaps if I want to get to the other side, the only way to get there is to go through it? Heavens knows all the bridges have been burnt at this point.... And I sure can't seem to get around the son of a bitch...

Perhaps... Perhaps...

Perhaps...

But, I'll tell you this:  I am bringin' my own damn flashlight, though. That tunnel sure looks pretty fuckin' dark to me.

Relatedly:

After a While

by Veronica Shoffstall

After a while you learn the subtle difference

between holding a hand and chaining a soul.

And you learn that love doesn't mean learning

and company doesn't mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts

and presents aren't promises.

And you begin to accept your defeat with your head

up and your eyes open,

with the grace of an adult,

not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all you roads on today

because tomorrow ground is too uncertain for plans.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns

if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own

soul, instead of waiting for someone else to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure...

That you really are strong

And you really do have worth.

10% Rule and the Toaster from Hell

Some days I really should NOT even get out of bed, seriously.  When you lose a battle with a freakin' TOASTER, you know it's gonna be one of THOSE days.

I do not own a toaster.  I don't know that I have ever owned a toaster.  I didn't get a microwave until well into my 20s and that was a gift from my mother (and then it sat in the box for almost six month until my roommate decided she wanted to use it).  I am a bit old fashioned that way.  I make everything on the stove or in the oven; it's just the kinda girl I am.  Though I have recently  discovered the wonderful art of Crock Pottismery!  Fabulous...

Anyway...

The place I am staying at has a toaster, free for my own personal use.  How charming.  I decided I wanted a lovely toasted ham, egg, and cheese sandwich.  Seems easy enough.  Or so I thought.  I drag the toaster out from under the sink where it - I now understand - was actually lurking like a crazed New Orleans street rat for it's next victim.  Guess who that ended up being...

Okay, so got the little bastard out.  Now where is the damned cord???  What is this?  Some tree humping neo-hippie solar powered green Earth bullshit?  Do I have to find a hamster to haul ass on a little metal wheel to work this damn thing???  Already the annoyance is setting in.  High strung rabbits and cordless, non-functioning toasters are not a good mix.

Finally found the cord.  It was curled up and wedged into the equivalent of the toaster's butthole on the back/bottom of the contraption.  Yank it out of there and the damned side falls off.  Crumbs everywhere.  Who puts away a dirty toaster?  What type of shit is that????  Okay.  Cord?  Check.  Crumb barfing door closed?  Check.

Bread.  At this point I am about ready to just forego the whole damned sandwich and have a cocktail instead.  Shove the bread in the little toaster twat slots...  Push the little button hooer.   Nothing.  It just sits there.  Mocking me.  I literally scream out loud.  I am now determined to win.  This little son of a bitch is going to toast my bread if I have to set it on fire to do it.

I give it a good smack or 12.  Bang it on the counter.  Fling the bread onto the floor in the process.  Five second rule.  Try again.  Back in the twat slot goes the bread.  I force down the jackass level thingie and VOILA!  it's toasting.

I grab a plate and the luncheon meat and hear pah-chick-clunk-phlam...  Awww shit...  I turn around and the effin' thing has not only BURNED my damned toast in 2.3 seconds to a black and charred crisp, but it upchucked it right the hell outta there like a baby eating brocoli - and the damn crumbcatcher door thing has fallen open again!!!

One piece of charcoal landed in the trash.  The other flew up into the open freakin' cupboard and landed perfectly on a plate, leaving little black charcoal crumbs all over the place in its wake.

Needless to say, I busted out with my trusty cast iron skillet (and no I didn't pummel the evil toaster with it) and made some charming toasted bread on the stove top.

As for the toaster from hell, I duct taped that damned door thing back on; shoved it's stupid cord back up its little toaster butthole, and CHUNKED it back up under the sink where it can rot and die for all I care...

I may be having to replace a toaster though.

Life is not meant to be...

...a journey to the grave with the
intention of arriving safely in a pretty
and well preserved body,
but rather to skid in broadside,
thoroughly used up,
totally worn out,
and loudly proclaiming,



WOW! What a ride!

Mask of the Hare

"He may not only reject the praise but may have some second thoughts about

those who have praised him: "If they find me so great, they cannot be so smart."

[Source]

I'm a Cutter

My sister toyed with the idea of "cutting" at one point, though I think hers was more for the dramatic license of teen angst bullshit and a middle child's look-at-me antics than anything. My ex went the cutting route on a balcony in California, bathed in the spotlights of a frantic SWAT team in a broken culmination of an unloved life. I am a different (and worse) kind of cutter - too vain to wear my scars on the outside for all the world to see. It's hard to rock a poker face when you look like you've been gangbanged by a pack of hungry Exactos. I do not cut myself.  My cutting is more permanent.  It leaves no marks.  It does not grow back.  I cut people - entirely and completely - off and out of my life.  It's a cut that seldom heals.

Despite my oft perceived Surly Demeanor, I really do have a big heart.  Huge.  And of Gold.  It bleeds for more lost causes than Saint Jude.  It weeps for more stray and lost children than Sally Struthers.  And it often costs me dearly.

But, when It is over.  It's Over.  I. Am. Done.  Deb asked me yesterday what the song I posted meant to me.  Initially, when I put it out there, it was directed with vehement intent at one person - an ex.  But upon listening to it - really listening to its message - I came to realize that it was something else entirely.

It is my Modus Operandi for failed - or fed up - relationships.  It is my blade.  I have a hard time saying "no."  I have a hard time being ugly.  So I push and I cut.  I hack and dismember.  I make YOU hate ME so I don't have to deal with it.  If I succeed in making you hate me and you walk away from it all, I don't feel like The Bad Guy.  I feel validated in taking my knife and carving out the chunk of my life in which you existed.  You left me.  And now you are gone.  You are no more.  You no longer exist.  So many people in my life have fallen prey to these tactics.  Bled dry and eliminated.  Never to return.  I don't look back (often).  It's what I do.  It's how I operate.

It's how I survive.

Sane?  Probably not.  Healthy?  Not in the least.  But how often is self-preservation really either of those things?  Sometimes, be it good or bad, we all have our own fucked up ways of getting through a day - a lifetime - a cess pool of broken hearts and open wounds.

For me, it's cutting.  (But...  I'm working on it.)

"Maybe I aint used to maybes smashing in a cold room

cutting my hands up every time I touch you...

Maybe it's time to wave good-bye now..."

~ Tori Amos, Tear in Your Hand

Six Words Saturday

Six Word Saturdays is a weekly series over at Call Me Cate's very funny blog, Show My Face.

Mine for this week are:

I'm ready for the next chapter...

It's been a rough road these past few months - this entire year, to be honest - but I am looking forward to what lies ahead. I have realized so much. Past people have wandered into my world again; present people have faded out. Priorities have changed. And the possibilities are seemingly endless. "It's all happening..."

And then, this morning, this gal made an appearance... Scritching and scratching her way out onto the page. I hope you enjoy it!

Untitled (as of yet)

In my tree with Natalie

spying on packed bags

and promises broken

I climb a ladder

of stolen pens

and paper scrapped

for inspiration

scrubbing free the

yesterdays

i revel in you as

eraser dust

blown away

nothing more now

than shadowed smudges

on parchment weathered

Hate Me...

If you're sleeping, are you dreaming?
If your dreaming are you dreaming of me?
I can't believe you actually picked me.

I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head
They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed
Dropping little reels of tape to remind me that I’m alone
Playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home
There's a burning in my pride; a nervous bleeding in my brain
An ounce of peace is all I want for you. Will you never call again?
And will you never say that you love me just to put it in my face?
And will you never try to reach me?
It is I that wanted space

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you

Hate me in ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you

I’m sober now for three whole months it’s one accomplishment that you helped me with
The one thing that always tore us apart is the one thing I won’t touch again
In a sick way I want to thank you for holding my head up late at night
While I was busy waging wars on myself, you were trying to stop the fight
You never doubted my warped opinions on things like suicide and hate
You made me compliment myself when it was way too hard to take
So I’ll drive so fucking far away that I never cross your mind
And do whatever it takes in your heart to leave me behind

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you

Hate me in ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you

And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave
Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made
And like a baby boy I never was a man
Until I saw your blue eyes cry and I held your face in my hand
And then I fell down yelling “Make it go away!”
Just make a smile come back and shine just like it used to be
And then she whispered:

“How can you do this to me?”

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you

Hate me in ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you

If you're sleeping, are you dreaming?
If you're dreaming are you dreaming of me.
I can't believe you actually picked me.

Please Pass the Acid (or: An Unbalanced Balancing Act?)

More than a decade has passed since those days on the river, with the smell of desperate chance, chickory and ganga in the air. (Jackson Square at its finest.) Though we were fearful and homeless, in those days we still had hope.  The world was smeared out before us for our bleary bidding.  Our cares were minimal.  Our needs, basic at best.  Our greatest concerns were who was holding what that night and what wig to wear with those shoes.  We were tactless and tacky and we wore our own inane - if not insane - brand of five-and-dime fabulosity on our sleeves with pride.

We were The Young Ones.  We were the Lost Boys (and gurrls) of the Big Easy:  Livin' it hard, burnin' it up, and tearin' it down.  What ever it was.  Our stage was The Streets.  Our cast, a cacophony of Gutter Punks and Drag Queens; High Rollers and Hookers; Poets, Potheads, Vampires, and Waitresses; Runaways and Royalty.  We were addicted to the gutted and glittered glamour that was the tourist's Bourbon Street.  We were addicted to the rough trade in the back rooms of Rampart.  We were addicted to everything in between, never realizing it was all one and the same.

Looking back now, as what passes for an adult, I often wonder how we survived.  We were kidnapped.  We were drugged (irony, I know).  We were held at gunpoint and raped over the hood of a beat up Chevy, only to learn the gun wasn't loaded.  We were arrested; we were released.  We stole.  We drank.  We partied.  And eventually, we all turned on one another...

I guess it's all part of the process.  It became the journey that brought us all to the crossroads at which we now stand - good, bad, or indifferent; for better or worse.  The destruction was the creation (or was it the other way round?) that destroyed us all, and created the monsters we have become.  We are our own end result in whatever medium we now choose to exist...  Looking out at yet another smeared world and its own hot mess of possibility.  Of promise, perhaps, even?

Are we really any more the wise now than we were then?  Did all the bloodshed and tears and accompanying battle scars really leave us any wisdom in its wake?  Or are we just stuck in an obligatory purgatory of all that is expected.  In running from that life, did we run headlong into this one - in a losing game of tit for tat???

I really don't know anymore.

The most disconcerting aspect of it all, though, is that I don't know which is worse:  this life, or that one.  In this new world, I feel caged.  My spirit feels bound and gagged; tethered to a life I don't understand and can not seem to make a go of being a part of.  Inversely, who in their right mind would long for a world of park bench amenities and laundry mat Christmases just so their soul felt free?

Surely there has to be a balance in it all somewhere...  Or is She Who Holds the Scales just as tipsy, fucked up, drunk, and crazy as we all once were.

Someone please pass the acid...  And go ask Alice.

I think she'll know...