I have a Myspace.
(If you would like to chastise me, my number is 1-800-go2hell)

However, this is not about myspace...directly.

A few weeks ago I uploaded some pictures to my Myspace. Whilst I added them to an existing album, they ended up being in a seperate album named "Rugby Puppy".

Then a few days later, they were where I had put them, and the "Rugby Puppy" album was gone.

Hacking into Myspace is like getting laid in a strip joint, it doesn't take more than a few taps and clicks for the panties to drop.

But seriously folks, what's a Rugby Puppy?

And why copy my last upload into it?

And then delete it, a few days later?

I know I should know how or why this happened... but I didn't even know it had happened at all until it was commented upon in my previous posts' comments.

And I had no idea what he was talking about!

So beware, there is a Rugby Puppy about, copying your downloads and making peopls believe you are crazy.

Yet the question lingers on unanswered: What the #@#@ IS a Rugby Puppy!??

Tags: silliness
Current Location: home
Current Music: pandora

November 28th will mark 3 months since Shamus has left my side.
It will also mark three months that I have been seeing this amazing guy.

Hes never up my ass, he never calls too late, or when I am busy.
Hell, he doesn't call even when I would want him to call.

Because he is NOT REAL.

Try telling that to Shamus!

He really thinks this "dude" makes me update and alter my online profiles as well as a host of other imagined insults.

I feel that once again I am shadow boxing my former relatioship. I want to have a happy and drama free life with my boys. And only those males whom I have carried and cared for are in my house when I lock those doors at night.

If I change a profile, hell, if I am using the internet from a computer it is obvious I am fucking some one...

Right?

SHIiiiiiT NO.

It is hard for me to try and get on with my life, to be happy with my mediocre, mundane and poverty line ridin existance;
when my former love pokes about online, looking for ways to find fault with me and ways to start arguments.

(Its like he never left!)

I learned long ago you can't change people. I learned long ago that some people have drama in their lives because its the substance of what they have.

Well I got more to my life than imagined drama, and I want nothing to do with a boyfriend, either

Endings are some of the most emotionally charged instances that occur in our lives.

At the end of a (successful) courtship most hope for an event that binds two together into one, an event that will define their relationship to themselves and the world.
At the end of a pregnancy, there is an event that usually sticks with a woman the rest of her life, one she will relate to other woman as a way to create bonds. 

Not all endings end in event...

At the end of movies, one sometimes feels as if the story wasn't finished. (I am excluding those movies that do this to purposely hook you for the sequel.)
At the end of books, one can often feel sad that the story has ended. (Especially if it was a particularly good series or sequel) 
At the end of an education, there is a feeling of accomplishment.

Endings sometimes are beginnings.
Endings sometimes are final.
Sometimes they are both.

However all endings cause me to take pause and consider a period of time in totality.

Weather that time was brief, perhaps more so if it was expansive; I find myself rehashing the days, sometimes hours I lived inside the story.

Your story, My story. 

I sometimes question my roll in the matter: Did I do/react/behave as I should in this matter? Were my actions and words motivated by love of the other or love of self in that circumstance? 

I am sometimes left with a feeling of failure, sometimes I feel the fool.
However, in taking pause, in the rehashing of the dialog, I must remember that endings will exist always; and we deal with them as best we know how, for the place we are in at the time.

Above all I have to remember; that there are no endings, without some morsel of learning to be gleaned from the pages a-fore. 

The only real time wasted is that time in which we either taught nothing or learned nothing. 

Lastly, I am mindful of how I approach endings with people. You never know when a character could return that you once thought was long gone, and give no one reason to write you as the villain in their own story.

I can greive, cry and be angry, but these things are still true.
I can miss the hell out of you, but your still gone. 

Slán leat.
Auf Wiedersehen.
Au revoir.

Fin.
An deireadh.
The End.





Goodbye.

Today, I was sold an evening gown by force.

No, not due to an event, future need, or some freakish shopping complex, but due to the horrid return policy of an Evil, and here unnamed bridal shop.

This evil bridal shop is a national retailer. If the retailer had been a couturier or even a mom’n’pop kind of business, I would feel differently about my forced purchase.

It all started when I had to buy the ugliest pair of shoes from this place, as part of the ritual torture Brides subject those they love to, when making them bridesmaids. The Bride had requested “closed toed flats” and these were the only pair fitting that description in my size.  I bought those damn expensive monstrosities, yet thankfully (I thought) I didn’t have to wear them. She changed her mind. (yeah!)

When I came home from the wedding, I was of the mind to rid myself of these putrid shoes.  I figured, I had a receipt and they were in the condition I purchased them in, why wouldn’t they take them back?

Therefore, I went to this National Nightmare and humbly offered my hygienic, (yet hideous) shoes and the receipt to the girl at the counter.

Who sheepishly told me they couldn’t take them at all.

I said “Tell your manager to say that to my face!”

No, I didn’t…

But the manager agreed to give me store credit.
Store credit in a bridal shop…

So, first I ask if they have crinolines. (To save myself the trouble of making one.)

But they had nothing to offer.

Then, I am directed to the “accessories” dept.

Now, I love sparkly things, but bridal rhinestones are a little more bling than I usually like to wear. I pass the evening bags, sashes, the “bride” T-shirts, panties, tote bags, and aprons, Teddy bears… yeah.

I’m beginning to feel like I am leaving with either a nauseating pair of shoes, nothing, or…

I look in the clearance.

I find a wine colored, floor length, adult looking evening gown.
It fits, and is actually just a hair too tight. (so it looks awesome :) ) It was within my limit. This and some fashion tape, and I fulfill the limits of my “store credit”.

And I leave with my purchase under duress.

Now, I might seem ungrateful,
Bemoaning the acquisition of an evening gown in exchange for some crap-tastic shoes,
but I really needed the cash.

I can’t eat this gown, or stuff it in my gas tank and drive on it.
I can't clothe my son in it, for his new year of school.
I wish I could trade it for something of real value.
I honestly don’t know if or when I will ever wear it.

Ultimately, I feel like selling the bloody thing on craigslist.
However, who has the money, or the use for an evening gown these days?

No one I know. Including myself.

Let’s Explore something together.

Let’s explore what the term “trashy” means.

trash·y  (trsh)
adj. trash·i·er, trash·i·est
1. Resembling or containing trash; cheap or worthless: trashy merchandise.
2. In very poor taste or of very poor quality.
trashi·ly adv.

Now we are going to delve a little further.

cheap
adjective, -er, -est, adverb, noun
–adjective
1.  costing little labor or trouble: Words are cheap.
2.  of little account; of small value; mean; shoddy: cheap conduct; cheap workmanship.
3.  embarrassed; sheepish: He felt cheap about his mistake..
4.  stingy; miserly: He's too cheap to buy his own brother a cup of coffee.

‘Cheap” is a physical concept, it has to be applied to something that materially exists. “Taste” on the other hand, has a lot more to do with feelings and other conceptual properties that do not always take a physical form.

taste
verb, tast⋅ed, tast⋅ing, noun
–verb (used with object)

–noun
1.   a relish, liking, or partiality for something: a taste for music.
2.   the sense of what is fitting, harmonious, or beautiful; the perception and enjoyment of what constitutes excellence in the fine arts, literature, fashion, etc.
3.   the sense of what is seemly, polite, tactful, etc., to say or do in a given social situation.
4.   one's personal attitude or reaction toward an aesthetic phenomenon or social situation, regarded as either good or bad.
5.   the ideas of aesthetic excellence or of aesthetically valid forms prevailing in a culture or personal to an individual: a sample of Victorian taste; I consulted only my own taste in decorating this room.
6.   the formal idiom preferred by a certain artist or culture; style; manner: a façade in the Baroque taste.

By this definition; of what taste is, we can then surmise what poor taste would be.
We will use the next definition in the same manner.


qual⋅i⋅ty
noun, plural -ties, adjective
–noun
1.   character with respect to fineness, or grade of excellence: food of poor quality; silks of fine quality.
2.   high grade; superiority; excellence: wood grain of quality.
3.   a personality or character trait: kindness is one of her many good qualities.
4.   native excellence or superiority.
5.   Logic. the character of a proposition as affirmative or negative.
-adjective
1.   social status or position.
2.   producing or providing products or services of high quality or merit: a quality publisher..
3.   marked by a concentrated expenditure of involvement, concern, or commitment: Counselors are urging that working parents try to spend more quality time with their children.

By doing this little exercise I hope we have cleared up a few misconceptions about what makes something or someone “trash”.

But just in case…


trash
–noun
1.   anything worthless, useless, or discarded; rubbish.
2.   foolish or pointless ideas, talk, or writing; nonsense.
3.   a worthless or disreputable person.
4.   such persons collectively.
5.   literary or artistic material of poor or inferior quality.
6.   broken or torn bits, as twigs, splinters, rags, or the like.
–verb (used with object)
1.   Slang. to destroy, damage, or vandalize, as in anger or protest: The slovenly renters had trashed the house.
2.   to condemn, dismiss, or criticize as worthless: The article trashed several recent best-sellers.



















*****On a side note*******


wis⋅dom
–noun
1.     the quality or state of being wise; knowledge of what is true or right coupled with just judgment as to action; sagacity, discernment, or insight.
2.     scholarly knowledge or learning: the wisdom of the schools.
3.     wise sayings or teachings; precepts.
4.     a wise act or saying.

There is nothing in the definition about age.

She was at the same table every time. Stage right and right up front. She took a long draw on the cigarette she held. The last few notes from the piano had just faded. She delicately swished the ice in the bottom of her glass, hoping to taste the last few drops of sapphire gin in the mix. No such luck.

 She watched the players rise and exit the stage, time for the Band to sling back a few.
She had been in this place too long, she was sure. Someone would come up and speak to her; then she would have to look as charming as possible, while telling him to fuck off.

Not that she had to, lord knows she had an empty apartment to go home to. However, there was not a soul that would walk into a joint like this, that she could possibly find interesting. And if she didn’t tell the guy to F* off as nicely as possible, she might regret it. This place was not on the “reputable establishment” list. But Holy-Hell, did they ever have the best jazz quartet in town!

 Sure enough she felt that light touch upon her arm, and a man’s voice threw a flattering nothing into her ear. She turned, put on her biggest, scariest megawatt smile, and told the half-blasted, sadly overconfident lad Where To Go.

 Two hours later, the Manager walked her to the curb and waited while she hailed a taxi. It was cold and wet, and their breath made halos in the streetlight.

“You’ve been coming here for months,” He said thoughtfully. “You sit alone, mostly. Every evening you’re here I put you in a cab, alone. Why do you even come to this hole? Heaven knows it ain’t for the company.”

She laughed softly, “Current company excluded, there isn’t a soul in there I would allow to put me in a cab! I come for  the music, Tony. I like that little bit of danger that comes with liquor and jazz.”

“Yeah, well, you need to start going places where you want to talk to the other people. You look damn pathetic, sitting at that table with your gin and tonic, alone. Always alone. Makes the regulars talk…”

This time she genuinely laughed. The cab pulled up, and Tony opened her door.
“ You know I don’t give a damn about any other opinion but my own. Tell that to those barflies!” She smiled broadly through the glass at him as the car moved forward.

Sometimes, you can look back at yourself and laugh.

Then their are times, where a glance behind tears through you.

I find that too many a glance over the shoulder, stirs the simplest of fears;
that you have not really gone anywhere, that you are anchored there.

What you must do in that moment; when you seem to hover in the air, and the feeling of falling is settling into place,
is remember that everyone is in the place they choose to be. That their reality is exactly as they allow it. If you are chained, it is because you choose to be.

You are responsible for only yourself.
The people with and places we walk, we do only because we chose to now. Choices that were the past;
cease to own you in the now, but like a river's current they pull you forward.

However, you can still swim within its breadth.

I know these things, I've lived it, I sweep along in the current of my river.

Which I pray only gets bigger, wider, to the ocean; I still believe in my potential.

I believe that I still have something to contribute to my world.

I have no delusions about my position, I see my uphill climb.
But to not do it, is to say that I am still chained, and that I choose to be.

and I will not abide by that.

So in order to scale the cliff of my rising, I must not too often look over my shoulder.

As one who enjoys natures green anodyne, I feel I know a bit about paranoia.

Sometimes you should be paranoid. Let's say, driving with a kilo of Colombian.

Sometimes, however, it is all in your head. i.e. That bird you are quite sure is following you and, you are certain, it is only doing so to poop on your car.

I prefer the former (feeling, not instance, douchebag).
However I feel the latter.

In the former instance, you know why you should be paranoid. In the latter, it's just a feeling, and we all know that feelings don't make sense all the time.

Why am I experiencing this emotion?

I am very employment insecure, and I think that would only subside when I am writing my own check (no guarantee that will ever happen).

The other (and main reason I believe) is that loving someone leaves you open in places that are tender, and then exposes them to the weather.

I have felt very exposed. It has been very difficult for me to trust the man I love, as I have picked up my heart in pieces a few times too many.

Shamus once said I play the cards very close to the chest. This is true. I don't like to reveal my feelings until I understand them. I try to examine myself before I act or speak... something that I really have had to teach myself over the years. My tongue has been my enemy most of my life.

So when I suspect that a M4W add in the Folio Weekly is Shamus looking for my replacement...I shut my mouth and examine my feelings.

I ask myself questions like, "Self? You know he is not really looking for a woman 35-45 who is self reliant!" Or " Self? Why would he want a woman without children? You know how happy he is on Saturday, when your kids shake the house at 7am!"

Like I said, feelings are not rational.

After all,

Not every bird out there is trying to poop on your car.
Just "a" car.

:)

Tags: now i'm an amputee gd you!

About two months ago, I cut my hair OFF. As in just a few inches longer than a pixie cut.

I have had mixed emotions about the mirror after that.

It made me think of the Proverb, “A woman’s hair is her crowning glory.”

I have run the hairstyle gamut. From so very long that I could sit on my braid, to my current experience of hair-less ness. I don’t miss the “long” days; getting into bed a night and kneeling on my locks, getting it caught in my backpack zipper, or heaven forbid getting gum in it.  I do miss the elaborate styles I could invent, and its beauty en-mass. From those lengths, I did a medium length that was a lot of fun, without the hazards, but it was short lived.
I went to a bob, which was way razored in the back and looked like poop growing out. I then became scissor-phobic again and grew it out to the middle of my back.
Recently I went buck wild. I think I have cut my hair about six or seven times in the last year.

Here I sit, feeling androgynous, amongst other adjectives that do not include feminine or pretty. I thought that I would get used to it. I thought that eventually, the chick in the mirror would start to look like “Me”. It hasn’t happened.  Shamus has insisted that I look “sophisticated” and “my age”.  While I like these words, they cannot alter what I see in the mirror. These feelings have been magnified in the last few days by some co-worker comments upon seeing my former locks of glory, (Like why did you do that?) as well as the very mixed reaction from my few friends. (They have either loved it, or hated it)
 All in all, I am sure that my cutting days are done for a while.  Not because I want people to look at me, or I want to look younger, but because I want to look like ME again.

And there isn’t a damn thing wrong with that.

A few days ago Shamus and I watched a show about a son and his estranged father.
I was inspired to write about my own Father.

This could be a book if I chose to write out everything I know about him. I’ll spare you that torment. Instead, I will write a synopsis of that book (*chuckle*).

My Dad and I are not dissimilar individuals. It has been the curse flung at me most often by my Mother. The majority of the time, it was meant as an insult.

That fact always pissed me off, though I understood the reason. To the positive applications of our similarity: both of us retain almost everything we read, and can read thick, daunting novels with speed and ease. We both love knowledge, but really only enjoy the process when we are learning something we want to learn. We both have a logically directed path that our thoughts follow. Both he and I are too smart for our own damn good.

On the flip side of that coin: We are both very short tempered, prone to doltish refusal to concede our point of view, and have real problems with authority (other than our own).

My Dad was a very disassociated Father. It was always made plain, at least to me, that he never wanted kids, and he bore that responsibility as little as possible. He went to work and supported us as a father should, but other than that fundamental aspect, he might as well not have been there. Dad didn’t like children, but disliked me as a teenager even more. What teenager isn’t difficult by some measure? Dad and I had what could be described as an explosive relationship. That, and the constricting rules of my Mother, is why I fled their home in all haste upon reaching 18.

Dad was never a regular drinker, and I can never recall seeing him drunk. I didn’t know he even smoked weed until I was 14. I found out shortly after making that discovery that my dad has done every drug short of crack and heroin. He told me at some juncture that he had liked coke a little too much, and made efforts to stay away from it. Helped vastly by the fact that Mom was as sober as a judge, and would have had his ass on a platter if it had come into her house. I can say that while I toke as other people drink beer, I never wandered into the more dangerous pastures, thanks in part to his stories.

The other part of that reason is not so warm or fatherly.

You must understand, as my father was 18 when I was born, that a host of his “stories” took place while I was very much alive. These were the things he did, rather than be with his family. That reason, more than his stories, is responsible for my distaste of hard drugs. I was robbed of a father, not by drugs in the way most people would assume, but by a choice made by him to have “fun” rather than have a family.

I love my Dad. I have fought very hard to forgive his selfishness. It is made all the more difficult, as he has yet to realize, really, what he has done (or didn’t do). I know this to be fact because “Paw-Paw,” as he is called by my children, really doesn’t want them around. He doesn’t see the opportunity to rectify his failure as my father, by being a real Grandfather to two little boys who need, and would benefit so very much by his affection and attention.

I wish this topic wasn’t so sad. However, it is what it is for a reason. I am who I am for a reason.

But I am not my Father.

No matter what Mom says.