2 Hours, 37 Minutes

2 hours, 37 minutes. That’s how long I could stand the sheer enjoyment of my own company. I always look forward to the rare stolen moments when I have the house to myself for a few hours. I make plans. BIG plans. I’m going to do at least one full workout or yoga, uninterrupted. I’m going to cook fish. I’m going to finally finish that book everyone was reading when I started it. I’m going to rifle through all those magazines beside my bed and actually throw some of them away. I don’t think I need to know what Debbie Allen made for Thanksgiving dinner… in 1996. I’m going to return all the messages on my voice mail and change the outgoing message on my cell phone. 2 hours, 37 minutes. I watched 4 sit-coms. I ate left over take-away Chinese. My nod to exercise turned out to be emptying the trash and downloading 4 new exercises for my hips and thighs. I nearly finished the TV Guide crossword puzzle. I ate an ice cream sandwich for dinner. 2 hours, 37 minutes. Couldn’t stand my own company a single moment longer. I called a pal and thankfully, his life is no more interesting than mine on a Thursday night filled with reruns. We’re meeting at the bar.

Summertime

That's my excuse for not posting. What's yours for not asking? Coming soon: Southern Belles

It's a Small, Small Town

To My Southern Sisters,
You know that I'm not the kind of girl who adjusts easily to country living. This is the kind of place where going to market is an undertaking; where dinner and a movie is a major excursion that requires actual planning. This is a place where shower shoes are considered acceptable footwear and women leave their homes without lipstick. And I'm not talking about putting it on in the car. I'm telling you that they leave the house without a lipstick! Not even in their pocketbook. Bare lipped! Well now, maybe I'm overstating it. A good number of them do wear Chap-stick...

[Disclaimer: Before some of my Northern Girls get all snarky, I should tell you my Southern Sisters, that I do have a handful of girlfriends who have been on the business end of the Clinique counter… thank the gods.]

I'm a Big City Girl living in a town where when you stop for coffee at the local convenience store, the Chief of Police greets you by name and inquires about your in-laws. It’s very Mayberry-esque, I know. In case you're wondering if the vodka has soaked my brain to the point that I actually believe I’ve moved into a 1950’s television program, you should know that there is a fair share of city-type crime to make me more comfortable in these surroundings! I remember it took 4 of our 6 police officers all summer to get to the bottom of which kid painted graffiti on the back of a mushroom truck two years ago...

I am wont to say to anyone who will listen that it's uncivilized to live like this. Obviously there are people who truly enjoy the "sense of community.” I gotta say the only sense I feel is that of someone's nose constantly shoved up my ass. Go ahead. Just try to enjoy one too many cocktails. Your neighbors will be whispering over the shrubbery that you're a lush by dawn.

*heavy sigh*
I miss the anonymity of living in a big city. Please send lipstick.

Scooby-dooby-doo, where are you?

Is my silence beguiling or unnoticed?

Purely unintentional, my dear Reader. I blame my friend, Jake. He made me promise to stop with the self-indulgent introspection and get back to, well, whatever else it is I write.

To that end, I've been painting my bathroom and mulling. So far I've only managed to scrape the surface of why we repeat behaviors that so obviously create discomfort. I do not enjoy painting. I'm not particularly good at it. I can't cut in a wall with a straight line across the ceiling. And yet, once again, I am rolling and wondering, "why do I always choose the hottest day to paint? Do I enjoy sweltering heat in a confined space? And is it the incessant rolling of sweat between my boobs, or perhaps the gross feeling of my shorts sticking to my ass that is so unmemorable that I haven't learned this lesson yet?"

Repeating behavior... y'all thought I was going to talk about booze, huh! Or maybe bad relationship choices! I suppose I could but frankly, it feels a little obvious. [Translation: I don't have the kind of time it would take for me to wade through my drunken debauchery or failed relationships even though they'd surely be great fodder for gossip and snickering - which is fun!]

So, then. I'll be getting back to it. If you need me, I'll be in the bathroom...

Comments, Comments, and “Is that Me?”

I wanna thank everyone who has submitted comments to the rantings I leave behind. I have to say that some of them are fuckin’ hysterical! That said, you may be wondering why those same comments never seem to appear in the Comments sections of each entry. The reason for this is simple. I figure if I “publish” one, then I’ll feel obligated to publish them all. See, along with the really funny and ridiculous missives, there are a few flattering ones. In my head, posting those just translates into public self-congratulations.

*shudder*

And then along came Lisa Jones… I always publish Lisa’s comments because she has so much to say that we all need to hear [and yet, she sits on her essay for this site like a stubborn brat hoarding her toys. (glares at friend)] I’m very lucky that Lisa has been a part of my life for so very many years because besides being a brilliant wrier, she’s a brilliant friend. I’m hoping that she’ll start sharing her stories and become a part of your life as well, dear Reader. Perhaps she’ll blog on her own; perhaps she will finally submit the guest blog here that she promised… Either way, she has a voice worth hearing. And she used to perform stand-up comedy… for beers.

So from y’all’s comments: here’s my favorite: There’s this guy. Well, I assume it’s a guy; I’m not trying to find out for sure by responding because I'm afraid he won't write again. Regarding the "Life Truths" post in January, he said it was like “bloody horse dick.” What??? I dunno, but it’s fuckin’ funny! Of course my first thought was that it's my friend Jonny, or maybe Gareth, in Leeds, England because they’d think that’s super funny, too. Either way, I love this guy. That was brilliant!

Then there’s this woman, KCares, who has apparently decided that I’m her psych patient or her project. To ALL readers, let me just say this: I’m not looking for advice or enlightenment or suggestions on self-help books. Thank you…. You’re very kind. But perhaps you could just save that. If I wanted help, I’d see my priest.

The purpose of this blog is to just be honest with myself and with all y’all. Sometimes I expect it will be embarrassing ("Don’t Judge" post); sometimes I’ll be angry and take all of you down a road of ugly with me. This is not about trying to impress anyone with my wordsmithing or prose. Cripes! I don’t even have a “theme” here and we all know that every good blogger needs one of those! It’s just about putting words on paper until such time as I can string together something Random House (or even Penguin!) would want to publish.

I’m not committing to publishing comments going forward. Maybe I will send up the really funny ones; but most likely I’ll continue to just read what you have to say then use you as material.

Speaking of, there’s no question that the most popular comment is, “are you writing about me?” I’ve tackled that topic before: if you think I am, I might be… I just don’t know it. Examine your behavior before you get all pissy because something I wrote struck a horribly sour and familiar cord in your life.

I got an anonymous comment shortly after the “Apologies” entry was published. This man, woman, it, used to be a goat – I dunno – sent a comment so scathing I nearly published it. In a nutshell the he, she, it, goat was outraged for whatever personal reason and said there would be repercussions if I didn’t stop writing about him, her, it! Oh no! Not repercussions!

*giggle*

There is a very real reason why I think that's funny. Those of you who have known me more than a minute know that it’s not unusual for me to publish here things that I’ve published on other sites. For instance, “Life’s Truths” gets republished twice every year just because. There was a request to republish "The Friendship Game – Parts 1 and 2." When I started publishing here, it was with all entries that were originally published somewhere else. Okay, so this is the best part. The Apologies entry that so enraged our dear Reader is a republish… from 1999, originally written in 1995. Probably only Lisa Jones knows for certain why that was composed and she ain’t talkin’! The thing that I love about this particular entry is how it demonstrates the consistency of my principles. What was true in 1995, stands true for me in 2009.

I know that some of my work is good, a lot of it is shit, and some of it probably leaves no actual impression whatsoever – the worst of all three. I’m not trying to write the next great American novel or solve societies woes. I’m simply looking around and reporting back on what I see. Love it or hate it – apparently you feel something. And I LOVE that some of y'all take this so personally that you think I thought of you. Excellent!

Until I can relocate my focus, ranting without purpose and typing without direction will be my “theme.” Think of it like fruit cake – no one really knows what’s in it, very few people like it, but everybody gets one anyway.

Sarcasm

It’s not my fault.
Sarcasm is my body’s natural reaction to stupidity.

What is my fault is not recognizing when I’ve inadvertently surrounded myself with people who provoke my sarcasm…

[Sidebar for clarification: there is a difference between stupidity and ignorance. Ignorance can be educated. Stupidity is apparently inbred.]

"The trouble with her is that she lacks the power of conversation but not the power of speech"
- George Bernard Shaw

While we’re clarifying things, I suppose we should define sarcasm. It is not random shittiness. It is not an eyeroll, a snort, or a snide look in someone’s general direction. That’s nothing more than snarky behavior not brave enough to string together an actual remark.

"You have delighted us long enough."
- Jane Austen

Sarcasm is smart. It leaves one wondering if a remark was complimentary, or maybe not so much. It has a basis not only in wit, but in use of language. It requires timing and an innate sense of delivery. For exquisite examples of this, watch any Katharine Hepburn movie. Just pick one. I would suggest The Philadelphia Story with Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart (1940) if you’re truly interested in the brilliance of sarcasm properly delivered.

C. K. Dexter Haven: Sometimes, for your own sake, Red, I think you should've stuck to me longer.
Tracy Lord: I thought it was for life, but the nice judge gave me a full pardon.

I’ll be the first to admit that there’s a time and place for snarky – primarily before you’ve lived enough life to separate what matters, from what does not. But sarcasm, aptly conveyed, is timeless!

Apologies

I will not apologize for being fucked over.
I will not apologize for my reaction to being fucked over.

Mine is a simple philosophy. It’s about accountability. It’s about being honest with yourself and the people around you. I own my actions – good or bad. I apologize when I fuck up. Interestingly enough, it doesn’t appear that a large percentage of the rest of the world feels this way. It appears as though most would prefer to get caught not apologizing, before admitting wrong doing.

Here are the basics: when you get called out and have to back pedal for your actions, do not point your self-righteous finger in someone else’s direction. Look only to yourself and your own behavior. That’s how you get into these messes in the first place. Intuitively we all know what we’re doing, when we’re doing it. If you think I’m wrong, you’re dealing with a denial issue bigger than this blog. These are not always proud moments, and admittedly not always premeditated… the first time. The real issue arises when the unchecked behavior becomes habitual. Now we’re talking about premeditation and frankly, that’s way too unseemly for me to contemplate.

There is never any reason for someone to apologize on behalf of another. If it needs to be said, it will be. To do this is to perpetrate one of the ultimate forms of disloyalty. If you take another’s reins into your own hands, you’re only guiding the situation down a self-serving path. Good intentions – or not. We each have a Path of Destiny. Don’t interfere. It would suck for The Universe to take it out on you, eh?

Lastly, do not apologize for your behavior when you’ve been victimized. I know. No one wants to fall into the “victim” category, but sometimes you just are, and there’s nothing you could have done to avoid it. Understand that you’ll get screwed over. Sometimes by strangers, sometimes by “friends.” Take your pound of flesh, or walk away and wait for the Universe to demand its retribution. I prefer the latter. It’s more fun to watch.

Make your own choice. Just don’t apologize for it.