Slurpee

Remember being a child, getting ready for school, going to school and just hoping you would be liked?

I remember that hollow pit in my gut like it was yesterday. Like a 7-11 Slurpee, you drink it from the oversized straw and all the inside stuff comes through-then you don’t get anymore. It looks fine from the outside-lots of pretty pink slush.

{I love pink}

But the inside is empty. You are left sucking air. I am sucking air more often than not these days. I am moving to the beach house as soon as the kids are out of school. I hope it helps beat this depression I go in and out of.

{I really need my own space}

So often I find my office space in the parking lot of Buck’s. Today, as opportunity allows, I go inside and set up a table as my desk. Instant office!

I watch those people who stand all seemingly nice and pretty at the bus stop or waiting on the train.  Anywhere. In a line at the market or for a public toilet.

{hey…we all need to pee…}

Quite frankly, the nice and pretty standing people bug me. They project to the world an image of do not approach me. So many of them just don’t smile. Why would you not smile and say hello. A simple Good Morning. But so many are all so caught up in their own shit. Their mortgage, marriage, kids, dogs, lovers, addictions, desires. We all have them. So why be all bitch and not say hello?

I saw a man shaving at a bus stop a few weeks ago.

{Gross}

True, I wondered, “Why don’t you groom at home?!?”,

My point is, at least he was genuine. He had it going on!

As I sit in my corner office by the door at my local Starbucks, I stare at the faces. Still wondering–why?

{oooooh wait. She has lace corset fingerless gloves! Love them! And She is smiling.}

Maybe the happy people all have nice underwear on? There is something to be said for nice unders or a new wax you know. I’m sort of smily today, and while I have a new tan, I have no new wax and I’m in post-vacation, post-workout, Under Armour workout garb. So that theory blows.

I have access to the door so I can smoke freely and still see my shit at my desk. OK, now that I have been sneered at outside for smoking, I can get back to my point.

To the masses of grouchy, self-absorbed people–grab a morning popper, sniff fucking glue or just light up a cigarette for fuck sake! This place, this purgatory that we all reside in would be so much easier to deal with if the girl with the blue umbrella would just smile and say hello!

Easter Break: Eggs

EASTER VACATION WEEK: APRIL 2011-FLORIDA

I am in the car a lot. I like the way the thoughts flow in the car, with the constant changing landscape and the cars and people passing by.

As I watch the cars pass me by, I can’t help but want to just enjoy the passing. Watching the cars pass is wonderful. If I give up my front space at Buck’s and pull into traffic I am part of the movement.

Today I am tired of movement. I don’t want to join the fuck in. Today is the seventh day of our Family School Vacation week Easter. My Husband, number three, is taking the kids to church. If I commit to the action of participation—then I am forced to change.

{I am afraid of the answer}

Why do so many women that push baby carriages assume they have the right of way?! I do feel sad for them. Stuck in babyhood—an awful place. At least it was for me.

I don’t like babies. There. I said it. Don’t like them. I have never been moved to coo, ooo and ahh over somebody else’s baby. Don’t get me wrong. My niece, my nephew and my cousin’s baby—yes, them I enjoyed. Aside from that, unless I’ve pushed them out of my own vagina, un-medicated and screaming—I don’t like them!

It’s probably more of the truth than people let on. I know people say, “ooh it’s so cute”; meanwhile the big-headed fucker already has a snaggle tooth and a million dollar price tag.

Lately, I am considering spending their college funds on myself and letting them learn the hard-knock lesson of taking out a Student Loan or working towards a scholarship in lieu of yet something else just being handed over to them.

Then there is the self-righteous parent, “well I have a baby”…. “I need that parking space”…. “I need that spot in line”…. “I need that bathroom” …. “Excuse me, can you please not smoke?”

Hold on one minute. Marie smoked when I lived inside of her. I quit smoking when I was pregnant and nursing, and all that really did was cause resentment. I was pissed, depressed and fat. I am a much better parent smoking and drinking copious amounts of coffee.

I only recently started smoking with The Girl and The Boy in the car. I keep the windows open and rationalize to The Girl that, “atleast I didn’t smoke with her inside of me”. She glares at me—I am not sure if she is repulsed at my comment or that I don’t immediately put out my cigarette.

Recently I had an encounter on the beach with somebody’s baby.  The baby was a dog. Really. A canine, but they are delusional thinking it is a baby. They dress it and have all of the accoutrement that goes along with a small dog baby.

I was overly stoned and overly sunned and just trolling back and forth with Miss Carry when we ran into so-called “Mommy”. I immediately cause insult by saying, “is that a dog?” Remember we are talking about canines for real!  Anyway she proceeded to tell us about the “baby’s bronchitis and breathing issues”, when low and fucking behold she asks me to put out my cigarette!

{Outside.  At the beach, for the fucking dog. NOT a baby.}

Of course I laughed and said we needed to jet anyway.  Whatever-she’s clearly got issues and clinging to whatever she can, even if it pushes real people away.

As I remember my Baby Momma days, I was not happy. I loved my kids, but I was unhappy. It really was too much for me—sooo many needs and they can’t take care of any of those needs by themselves. I am starting to really like my kids more and more now. They are both in school full-time and I can write, smoke and take care of the household shit, alone! No one on my leg. No Clingy Mc Cling. No nagging. It’s good.

For the record: I love my dog and my two kids very much! Babies don’t like them. And if you see me stumbling down the beach sometime—don’t ask me to put out my cigarette.

{I won’t}

Rites of Passage

April 2011

My body is revolting against itself. It’s disgusted. I feel like in one year my entire DNA went from normal to highly spastic with frequent bouts of forgetfulness. That is part of the reason I will be celebrating “Rites of Passage”, at *Burning Man this year.

My passage into; I’m a half single adult with three husbands under my belt, two kids, a giant dog, aspirations of stardom and I am perimenopausal.

Yes, three husbands.  Number Three Man is the father of The Boy and The Girl–we are separated and living together, raising our children and owning a business.

Number Two Man doesn’t really count.

{Vegas quicky}

Number One Man is still in my life. I like to call him TripleEx.

{We’re dating}

Oh Christ, I could write for hours on any given one of these subjects.

Let me start with the one that is haunting me at present. At this time I am writing, I am missing my appointment with The Guru as I am with the kids and Husband number three, ”relaxing” in the sun. The kids are finishing up Spring Vacation Week. We’ll fly back home on Monday. Generally, I see The Guru twice a week and missing one session throws a wrench in my plan.

{That is the plan for not becoming fat dumpy average Mom}

Two weeks ago, I could not make it because I woke up in a pool of my own sweat; nauseous and shaky. This unfortunately is a part of the PM issue. A year ago I would have shaken it off pushed out fifty push-ups and walked out the door. Son of a bitch it took me fifteen minutes to make a cup of coffee with an automatic espresso machine. I fear my days of throwing on a hat and looking dreamy at Seven AM may be over!!

{An icepack on your face in the morning does wonders for puffiness}

I remember this one morning, the day after Halloween many years ago. Somewhere between, Man Number One and Man Number Two. I woke up in a strange room wearing my costume from the night before; covered in a Grandma afghan and still very drunk. I walked to work at the diner up the street. I remember what I looked like and what I was wearing. I looked good after a night at a bar, two house parties; one I had gotten thrown out off for being an ass, and a lot of booze.

I repeat, I looked good!! Fear not, my costume was intact. I had gone as myself to the Halloween Parties. My point is, I waited on fifteen tables that morning–until the night wore off and made a good living that day.

 {True, I probably didn’t smell good}

I was asleep by Ten PM last night. Yesterday, I enjoyed the Sun and ate clean. And, I don’t drink at all.  Yet, I feel like shit today. After I finish this I will go ice my face and drag my not average ass onto the dread-mill and I will warm up with mantras reminding myself that I am an athlete, I am young and powerful. I will get my time and miles in. I will do my pushups and probably some leg work, I will do what The Guru put on my list and I will fight against the truth that is my genetic makeup. Then back to the pool!

*Burning Man 2011 Trip:  Did not transpire due to a work conflict.

Marie’s Wish

 

I touched everything, read everything, and wanted most things we couldn’t afford.  Still true today.

Marie always said I was a pain in the ass kid. I wanted what I wanted, when I wanted it and would not stop till I got it. Crying, foot stomping, jumping out of a moving car (she always stopped when I had one leg hanging out of the door)

{True.}

There is something to be said for the bliss I experience when shopping for delicious items, when I don’t really have a job. More should try it—although the economy would suck even more if nobody worked—plus, they would be in my fuckin’ way. Never mind. Bad idea.

Just leave me and my bitch, Miss Carry, alone to touch things at Barney’s. Maybe I’ll go there today. No! I’m working…right?

{Hello reader, are you still with me? ADHD moment.}

Anyway, The Girl, my nine year old daughter. She is starting to act just like I did. Oh my God! Thank God for child safety locks or I swear she would’ve jumped in the first grade! Today is free dress at school. You would think it would be easier for her considering I am a compulsive shopper and she had an array of lovely, overpriced clothes to choose from scattered on the floor…but no!! She wants to wear a cream t-shirt with no sleeves that is too tight and a fucking tennis skirt!! Half of the time she is a wreck and I have to let it go because it is her thing. Thank God for uniforms all of the other days!

Marie like most mothers had wished I had a kid just like I was. And yes, The Girl is a pain in the ass, but I like to fancy the idea that I will mold her into less of a pill as time goes on. I am under the impression that if I am honest and talk to her about sex and drugs she will avoid them—not look for them as I did. Sex, drugs, eating-disorders, you name it—the addiction of the week. Every fucking thing I saw on those asshole afterschool specials on Channel 5, I tried. I like to think The Girl will have enough knowledge, esteem and guidance to avoid that shit.

{If she does— I’ll buy her a Juicy bag.}

 

The bag The Girl would kill for!

Why are “WE” all lumped together?

Maybe it’s selfish but everybody else’s shit is not my problem.  This morning, I was woken out of a sound sleep-(which is rare—the soundness—not the waking up part) by Marie asking me where the hell is my sister.

Just for the record my sister and I are both in our thirties. THIRTIES!!!!

Unless, Marie saw the news and my sister’s plane just went down, my Mother should not be waking me up to ask me where she is. Not my problem! Quite frankly, anything that pisses Marie off often is my problem.

Marie’s historically blaming, accusing and flat-out letting me know that I somehow am at the root of any shit that is happening. That may be Sister’s shit, Brother’s shit, My Kids, In-laws, Outlaws, Politics; “They” or “Those People”.

My Mother has a way of saying “You people” that groups every suck thing you’ve ever done with every suck person in the world—it’s absolutely infuriating!

When I am telling somebody off for some suck-ass asshole thing that I believe that person has done—I say YOU—not “you people”.  Quite honestly, I don’t think all “You people” suck—just “select people” at “select times”.

For example:  The Asshole driving twenty miles per hour in the forty-five zone while I was on my way to Bucks this morning.

Are YOU fuckin’ serious? YOU are a douchebag!

Just before I started blowing the Audi’s horn and it became one of those you can’t control the next sentence out of your mouth moments; where “You” are a fuckin’ cunt and now “You” have sunk to being like the rest of “Them”— a smile came from a lovely young officer on detail and reeled me back. Thank you to the Men and Women in Blue–You People are Awesome!

Copyright © 2011-2012. Eggs.Smoke.Sex. All rights reserved.

Words and images on this blog are copyrighted and not to be reproduced in any way without my express permission in writing. Please contact me with any queries at cognitive-ly@live.com

Just because its reality does not mean it’s ok to be there.

My reality now is pretty far from where I thought it would be. I just smoked some pot, having a butt and writing in my alley. I’ve just maxxed out another credit card and I am working all of my angles at avoiding reality. Quite frankly, I am afraid. I am scared. I fear the reality of my mind and of my life.

Fear is funny in ways.  It steals from us and takes away our dignity. It makes us believe in magic.

I’m OK with loneliness. Don’t fancy me the lonely kept wife. Not me. You know what I ‘m afraid of—first thing that comes to mind, I am afraid of not being the woman that I thought I was supposed to be.  I am not the doting wife, the crafty mom, certainly not the housekeeper, and all of those archaic notions of womanhood.

I love my kids—I love my husband very much. But the buck stops there in terms of “regular”.

My husband, he is a great provider, friend and partner. After thirteen years together I am willing to accept what he is not. We enjoy each other’s company and we work well as a team.  We are separated and living together as a team. We have separate personal lives and go on “solo”.

{No matter who it is or how much you love them—they cannot fill all of your needs. The sooner you accept that and live that the sooner you will be satisfied with something.} 

Sounds easy, but how many times do we find ourselves complaining about people not doing things when they can’t or won’t?

Every day, I see people in Bucks.  I think they are afraid. Of what, I don’t really give a shit. They won’t look in your eyes, won’t say hello—that is fear! Fear of judgment. Is that what I am afraid of? Am I afraid that my “Modern Family” is wrong, or is perverse in some form or another? No! I don’t think that is my worry.  I don’t give a rat’s ass what “they” think.  Fear of loneliness, nah, I’m not that either.  I know I am loved, I know that if the shoe drops, somebody will be there to give me a hug. 

Mind you—not really a hugger.

{Unless you’re gonna grab my ass while you’re at it!}

I’ll tell you what I am afraid of—I am fuckin’ afraid of being the woman who is OK with her sexuality, and her lack of want for teddy bears and hand holding.

Copyright © 2011-2012. Eggs.Smoke.Sex. All rights reserved.

Words and images on this blog are copyrighted and not to be reproduced in any way without my express permission in writing. Please contact me with any queries at cognitive-ly@live.com

 

Traveling with Children

As I walk through the airport needing coffee, needing to pee and already needing a cigarette, I am greeted with the usual airport travel grievances. Number one the kids can’t keep up and they want me to carry their shit.

{Hold on… I need to get up to let my niece pee. She only just sat down. Wait, the girl has ketchup on everything.  Let me get a napkin again.}

I am reminded of a memorable travel day with my parents. Let me share…wait a minute, I just came out of the bathroom and was thinking, I have never had sex in an airplane. I have never given a hand job on a plane, nor a blow job.  I have never even kissed on an airplane—nothing. It may be the only Virgin place for me.

{How cool.}

Now I am feeling pure, to tell my childhood story. ..

{Cute boy behind me just gave me a better pen to write this, I wonder if he wants a blowjob…Sorry sidetracked again.}

Soooo… must have been about 1977 and my Mom and Dad thought  a nice day trip on the train with me a precocious 5 year old and my brother –still normal toddler in a stroller, to the City Aquarium. The ride there must’ve been fine, I remember none of that—I usually don’ remember any of my childhood unless it was somehow traumatic to me. Dad is really cheap so we were probably hungry. We were always hungry.

{ Fucking kid six rows up will not stop screaming do they not have candy or Benedryl to give it?!?!}

Anyway I think we made it through the aquarium where outside there is a giant escalator that my Mother fell down. Right.  Fell down the escalator. Well, she got up and Dad proceeded to humiliate her further in some form, any  form , use your imagination. Moving toward the train—now everybody is in a rush. Grumpy fireman, frail mom, toe headed still ok toddler and me…all curls and curiousity. Let’s all get on the train….get on quickly, squish in there, we don’t want to have to wait for the next one that comes in 3 minutes, oh good all in, doors shut, son of a bitch I’m on the wrong side of the fucking door. Really? What the Fuck! Ok here’s an idea, yes, let the crazy hippie lady walk me to the next stop. She looks ok, long gray hair and willing to take me, seems good enough for my parents to say ok. This was my first realy experience of walking away with strangers that I was afraid to do but did anyway.

{Shut that fuckin’ kid up!!! Thank God it’s not mine.} 

Anyway—it all ended fine. They found me, my mother had bruises all over her from the fall; and took a beating from her lovely husband later for being a dumb ass.  My brother was exposed to a little more visual cues that would be shaping him into the man he’d one day become and I started my career of talking to strangers.

{That kid behind me is really cute I wonder if I should offer his pen back?}

Copyright © 2011-2012. Eggs.Smoke.Sex. All rights reserved.

Words and images on this blog are copyrighted and not to be reproduced in any way without my express permission in writing. Please contact me with any queries at cognitive-ly@live.com