Windows

I stood for hours in front of that fucking window.

Hours. 

The feel of the scratchy drape on that window is ingrained in my memory.  When I think about the little house on Crittenden, sometimes I think about all the long days and short nights I had when my ex-husband and I were gutting and renovating the place. 

But mostly, I think about that window. 

When he left, I was shocked...stupefied...stunned...Hadn't we just had the giant full Catholic Mass and three hundred of our closest friends and family for a night of dinner and dancing at one of the most iconic venues in Indianapolis?

Less than a month before he left, I had finally hung some wedding pictures up in the house. The night he left, I slept clutching one of those picture. It was of us driving away from the church in my dad's cherry red '66 E-Type. Me with my cherry red bridal bouquet held over my head in a sign of excitement and victory.

Tremendous.

I woke up the next morning with my mother on my couch and an impression on my cheek from where the frame rested overnight. 

After he left, I was dumbfounded. Convinced this aberration would have a different ending. Certain that if I just hoped hard enough and waited, he'd come back. 

It was that hope and that prayer that kept me up at night. Standing in front of that window watching cars drive down the street. 

Each time I'd start to see the beam of headlights, I'd look at the shape, hoping to see the long oval shaped beams of his car.

I was afraid to go to bed, certain that if I went to sleep I'd miss him and I'd miss my chance. Certain that if I was asleep, he'd drive by and not know that I was waiting for him. 

So in front of that window I stood. My nose rubbing up against the rough fabric, taking in it's soft musty scent. I would stand there and watch. Stand there and wait. Stand there and hope.

Stand there and hope that I wasn't missing my one chance to stop this crazy ride. Certain that if he would just drive by and see me, that all would be fixed, that we would be fixed, that my marriage would be fixed. 

I stood in that window. I stood and I stood and I stood. 

He never came. 

I stood there until I was about to collapse. I stood while I talked to my mother on the phone and denied that I was still standing there. I stood while I talked to my doctor and told him I was finally sleeping better. 

I stood and watched and waited and hoped and prayed. 

For nothing. 

He never drove by, never looked back. For all intents and purposes, I was in his rear-view from the moment he drove away on the night he left me. I could have stood forever and he would have never have returned. 

And a decade later I can say what happened is exactly what needed too...

But when I think about that timeframe in my life, what I remember is the scratchy fabric of that window. I think of standing there, watching headlights until I was ready to pass out. I remember the feel of the fabric on the tip of my nose and remember each time I looked for headlights like it was a divine sign. 

It never was.

It was just a window and they were just headlights. 

And I was just a sad lonely girl with a handful of recently shattered dreams and a window that she couldn't stop staring out of. 

As  life moves on and new pain replaces old and new humiliations trump old ones. I think about that little house on Crittenden. I think about that goddamn window. 

And I think "could I have spared myself?" 

The answer is no. I could not have spared myself. Standing at that window is ingrained because i also remember the first night I DIDN'T stand there. The first night I allowed myself to go to bed. And then the second and third. 

I remember how the first night felt. How much I wanted to stand at that window. How much I convinced myself that this was going to be the night. How I told myself out loud that I was no longer allowed to stand there. I locked myself in my own bedroom to keep myself from that window. 

And then three nights passed and I hadn't spent them all in front of that windows and four...suddenly a week...and then 10 days and soon I was leaving the little house on Crittenden. Suddenly, I no longer wished for headlights. Somewhere along the line, I gave up the dream and faced the reality. 

But when I remember the little house on Crittenden, I remember that window...and those nights. 

And then I marvel at how far I've actually come. 

the reason i'm here...is here.

a fall night in the mid-60's...my world started.

incredible, considering i was born at the tail end of the carter administration. in 1978.

but my world started in the mid 60's in Delware, OH...because my dad pledged a fraternity...that night..in a tiny bar with long faux leather booths at age 18 with 3/2 beer breath...my father met my uncle. 

my uncle, the older bother of my mother. 

my mother who would meet my father several years later and initially under the guise of "her brother's friend" 

...and thus...I'm here. 

i have never taken into consideration that much of the best parts of me are easily attributable to games of chance...a spin of the wheel...a roll of the dice...

much of my life could me summed up by "meant to be." 

my dad mentioned that in his speech at my sisters wedding (note: still not as awesome as quoting dickens and belushi within 2 minutes)...actually...it still makes me tear up. 

my world is "meant to be"

...and im a control freak.

i have an extreme dislike for not knowing what's coming next. it's something i try to work with...but truthfully, letting things be "meant to be" is one of the most terrifying things I can think of.

it's not that I don't 86-thousand examples just in the immediate forefront of my life that serve as a reminder that "letting it happen" is always a viable choice.

i just can't for the life of me just let it happen.

perhaps this self preservation..."letting it go" has lead to some very uncomfortable moments in my life and i know that trying to control everything is like trying to stop a river...but that doesn't stop me from wanting to try.

i want to know everything. what people are thinking, what they are doing...in another life i must have been a detective because i'm very good at figuring things out. give me a Boolean search and some time to waste, i can turn up all sorts of info. I can put two and two together with alarming accuracy.

truthfully...i just really don't like surprises.

the not knowing kills me.

i realize that this is limited. by knowing everything you leave out the chance for something wonderful...

...you just have the opportunity to also limit your exposure.

this is not a new thing, i've been like this my entire life. i remember searching for context clues regarding my christmas presents...what tools were out on my dad's work bench, what sized boxes my mom was grabbing at the store. my parents were on to me too...they started trying to outsmart me. sometimes they did too...because it's not too complicated to outsmart a 9 year old...no matter how much Nancy Drew she is reading.

It all went downhill when my ex-husband provided me the surprise of a lifetime and served me divorce papers on a night when I was expecting to come home, have dinner and take a shower. He's one of the few people who have completely surprised me and caught me completely in left field.

...not exactly a badge of honor.

but it solidified my need to not be surprised again and possibly made me into a crazy person. I'm perpetually waiting for the other shoe to fall. sometimes to the point where I completely miss the good in life and forget to stop and smell the roses because i'm obsessed with what comes next.

"Sure" i think "things are good now...but what happens next. what happens then?"

I've lost a lot of life not being able to deal with surprise, by being wrapped up in the next and missing the now. I struggle with it daily. I want to know everything. It makes me paranoid as all hell. As. all. hell. It also puts me in an unusual situation when I generally know more than I should and it's generally not good news.

Face it. No one preforms a boolean search and finds out that you saved orphans from a burning fire. Well, at least I never have. Found pictures of my ex's junk sent to other girls and memberships to porn websites...check. Discovered that someone I thought was wonderful was a felon? Did that too. I have discovered, by accident or by forced accident that there's a lot to discover.

and sometimes, it's really fucking painful.

But then I can prepare. I can prepare for what I am going to say when the situation presents itself. I'm a cryer. I cry at Hallmark commercials. Sometimes knowing allows me the opportunity to prepare myself for how to handle something...and when it does happen, I've already practiced how to respond...and have the potential to do it without a meltdown.

...er...sometimes.

So while I know the best course of action is to teach myself to accept the unknown...the person that I am is to scared to do it. What if something else bad happens. what if i'm not prepared, again? Do I melt in the middle of the street again and watch my husbands tailights until they disappear? That's where not knowing left me.

I am afraid to not know and terrified to know.

It's the ultimate paradox. 

'Gave it up for Lent

I thought that I would miss it more...honestly...and occasionally, there are moments that I do miss certain aspects. But not enough. Not enough for all the times it's made me feel bad or I judged myself based on someone else's posts and found that I came up short. I don't miss that sinking feeling.

I'm talking about, of course, Facebook. 

I've had my page deactivated about two weeks now. After the initial shock of NOT knowing what 1200 or so random friends and family are doing...I got used to it. After I got used to it...I got to sort of liking it. 

It's virtually impossible to keep current with so many different people from so many different times throughout my life any other way. 

It's also not necessary. 

Sure, it's nice to know if someone has done something wonderful. But it's not really necessary. It's great to see pictures of my friends and family that I don't get to see much and keep with their lives that way...

But again, it's not really necessary.

More over, now that I've had a few weeks "off" the book of Faces....I realize that no one is dying without knowing what I'm doing, where I'm going and who I'm doing it with. 

It turns out that as much as I have found that I don't miss having people's dinner schedules, vacations, children and achievements on a constant scroll...it turns out that no one is missing my updates either. 

I've found that I'm spending more time in the moment and less time trying to capture the moment. I think that's a good thing. 

While there are certain things I DO miss about my Facebook feed...there are number of things I realized I DO NOT miss:

1) I don't really care what you are eating for dinner...or lunch...or breakfast....especially not several times a week. Bitch, I know you can cook...and I'm sure you are making GREAT dinners for your family. I just don't care about them. Unless you are going to swing by the hotel with a plate for me too...I can safely say...I don't need a meal by meal photo essay of your culinary feats. 

2) Your kid. Every. Damn. Day. You have cute kids, I promise! But every single thing they do does NOT require documentation to the public. Here's a tip from someone who a) has never parented and b) never wants to parent...(so you know you can take me very seriously) YOUR KID WOULD RATHER YOU PLAY WITH THEM THAN PHOTOGRAPH THEM. 

I promise, no harm will come to your children if they do not have documentation of every.single.event. in their lives. If you miss a few things because you are busy living, well, that's okay. 

3)Vacations. I don't have time to take them and I'm intensely jealous that you do. Just kidding. But in all reality, put down the phone and enjoy your damn trip. Be retro and make everyone enjoy your vacation pictures when you get home. Hell, be REALLY retro and invite them over and make them watch a slideshow set to music of your trip to Daytona. They'll love that, I swear. 

4) Your gym pics. I don't care if it's leg day or arm day or if you've taken 12 yoga classes today. Good for you for making such healthy (if not slightly crazy decisions) But I don't care and I don't miss these posts. 

5) Your feelings on vaccination, GMO's, organic food, natural cures, breastfeeding until your kid is 17 and getting ready for prom. I don't care and no one else does either. You can stop sharing a picture of a box of Oreos with a skull and crossbones on it...because Oreos are delicious and I'm an adult and if I want Oreos, I can have them. I don't know ONE DAMN PERSON who uses Facebook as an information gathering service to shape their values. If it turns out that I actually do know someone who is doing this and I ever reactivate my page; I'm de-friending them immediately. I don't need such stupid friends. 

The truth is, no one thinks more of you because you buy only organic or because you are involved in a virtual march against a food company. If that's important to you...awesome! Go for it! However, if you are under the impression that sharing a picture or an article about a topic is going to make headway in convincing people of your cause...

I've got earth shattering news for you: It's not. 

I can promise that one night I read an hours worth of articles about the evils of Kraft Blue Box Mac N' Cheese, while actually eating a bowl full of the stuff. It was delicious. If Yellow #5 is wrong, then I don't want to be right. 

6)How much you love your significant other. I'm certain that you think that this person hung the moon, why else would you be with them?

I don't need to hear about it. I especially don't need to hear about it multiple times a week. I especially don't miss that uniquely annoying type of couple who post "I love you baby, you're the best husband in the whole world" only to get a "No! You're the best, I love you the most." response and go back and forth from there.

Don't you people have text message?

If your love is that amazing, you probably DON'T need to post about it on Facebook. Everyone already knows. If you are posting on Facebook about your amazing life...it's very likely that it's not all that amazing. 

7) Selfies. Here is a brief list of types of selfies that I do not miss. 

-Taken in a car, with the seatbelt on. 

-Taken while you look off into the distance and are looking deeply contemplative.
-Any selfies taken in a mirror

-Gym Selfies.

-Any selfies that were taken in your bed or in your bathroom. 

In general, I'm anti-selfie. Possibly this is because I personally look like a mutant from the majority of selfie angles. Perhaps I'm jealous. 

Perhaps not. 

Ask someone else to take a damn picture for you. 

8) Random requests for good thoughts or prayers, but neglecting to tell anyone what is going on.

Quit being so damn dramatic. 

9) Facebook invites to come see your band/art show/purchase shit from your kids school/purchase shit from your home based business. Just stop it. 

writers write

Someone who I consider one of my writing mentors told me "write by writing"

"Stop trying to be witty or thoughtful and stop trying to have a topic. Write. Just fucking write."

She went on to say that for writers, the process is as important as the product, which I'm pretty sure is something some other writer said...but I'll give her the credit for saying it to me. 

So my goal for the month is to write...when it's good and bad and easy and hard. Just to keep writing...

To stop worrying about editing and tweaking the language before I put it out into the world...to just write...edit when I feel like it or when I catch an error or better words come to me. 

To stop concerning myself if I drifted off the topic I was talking about and let my writing wander into the spaces of my brain where I find myself when I'm alone in my thoughts. To commit words to a page and use the language arts that I was so well prepared for K-12. 

Action begets action and it's inevitable that if I keep writing, I'll stop disliking my own writing so much and work on my sentence structure and metaphors. 

To find better ways to express myself and a better outlet. 

Because writers write...and i've always been a writer. I like to write. I just have a problem finishing the writing and find myself time and time again saying "i'll get back to that." 

Just. fucking. write. 

write something. write a list. write three times today where I was thankful or angry or hilarious. 

Just keep writing. Don't let this be something else you stopped doing because there are people who are better than you at it. There will always be someone who is better. 

You're not writing for them. You've always had a personal connection with the written word. Use it. 

Use your emotions and your feelings and the hurdles you are jumping presently. 

Write anything. This isn't Anna Karenina. You're not writing the next best seller. Fifty Shades of Grey was horrible writing anyway. But this isn't for anyone but you.

You...this is a personal relationship with you and writing. 

Just. fucking. write. 

The WTF chapter...

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stream of conscious for a monday (i think)

it's very likely on any given day i won't know what day of the week it is. i tend to work in these long stretches of time that have no basing on a normal schedule and lately i've only been getting one day off at a time...so it's just sort of of one, never-ending work week, with a few random days in the middle, most of which i sleep through.

alas...i think it's monday night. I'm pouring my second whiskey. I technically don't have to work tomorrow...i think that means that i won't show up at the hotel...but i'll probably spend half the day doing work related things...and maybe some laundry.

Unless, of course, I can convince Jers that "Mimosa Tuesday" is a holiday that needs taken into consideration. So "Mimosa Tuesday" is actually dependent on some family court schedule somewhere.

i'm pretty sure my boss is trying to fire me. i'm not exactly certain why, it wouldn't seem in her best interests to do so...but alas, she has yet to fail at making things more difficult than I feel is actually necessary. I get it...she's in charge and she can be in charge. I actually don't want to be in charge. There is ZERO power struggle coming from my end. I'm honestly just trying to do a good fucking job at my fucking job. It's amazing the amount of energy I feel like I have to dedicate to covering my ass and I keep wondering what 8th wonder of the world I could be building if I could spent that time actually doing my job and not freaking out and trying to predict where the next bomb will drop.

I just don't  know what to do about that situation. For the most part I just put my head down and keep working. I feel a little like Nemo...just keep swimming...just keep swimming...but if it's not something I haven't done...it's something I have done...or something that I didn't catch that someone else is doing. or something i never knew about whatever.

it's a constant mindfuck...and it's such a damn waste of time.

I have almost no ego...and very little need for glory. She can have all the glory and take credit for anything in the world that I do...just stop trying to screw with my damn career. I've worked hard on this shit...and I already paid my dues working for crazy person. It was just long ago that I almost forgot how exhausting it is.

almost.

when i walked in my house at midnight last night and realized that what i was smelling were the dishes...and then i walked around the house and collected 6 different glasses, each with the remnants of limes and the smell of whiskey...

...when i actually audibly cheered because i found 2 more pairs of underwear in my drawer...

...2 week old bowl of guacamole in the fridge?

...i still have the christmas decorations up...fuck...i still have my halloween decor sitting out....

the only thing that is done is the dry cleaning...and i don't do that.

i need to be a big girl, pull up my big girl pants and take care of this shit. i did the dishes last night and broke two in the process...whoops. don't do dishes angry.

i asked my buddy if he would consider kidnapping me. he told me i was too pretty to go to jail. backwards ass lovely compliment.

i think this is a transition year.

i think this year's motto is "less fantasy: more reality"

because i'm tired of pretending.

so let's try that.

bring the ruckus...fight the power...

My staff can attest to this: for the past few weeks I've been listening to what can only be described as "A-LOT" of angry rap. They know this either because they hear me when I pull into the garage or by overhearing me reciting it...

...there was an entire hour last week in which I only responded to people with Wu Tang lyrics...

I've been connecting with the "angry"rappers on a more advanced level and admitted to my best friends: I am beginning to feel that Mystikal and I are presently communicating on a higher level. They responded with laughter...but they know me...and they've put up with more than enough of my genre-bending escapades than is really fair. They, especially Nads, know my penchant for listening to the SAME SONG OVER AND OVER AND OVER again. Until their ears bleed. Until I have unabashedly driven them mad. Until, if you were Nads, you might have thrown my single version of "I'll Be" out of the window of Jenk 3... (after just a few or maybe five days of it being on repeat)... But, ah-hem, she was not accounting for that I also had downloaded it off Napster a few days prior. (Alas, I age myself.)

Generally, music is what gets me. It's what finds me at the right time with the right message. With everything going on now...I've been varying wildly from tragic love songs to fighting anthems. Accent on the fighting anthems.

I realize that what Wu Tang,  PE and Nas and I are all fighting for are very different things. Make no mistake...I'm at peace with my sorority girl-ness. I make VERY good bubble letters. I understand that HOVA's and my version of "the game" are very different things...

but on some level...are they really? 

aren't we all just fighting, clawing, gasping...looking for some respect?

While it's true that most of my childhood was painted by Norman Rockwell...and that's a stark difference from the Rugged Lands of Shaolin...and the only "projects" I was a part of as a child were of the "arts and crafts" variety...it's a fact that the things I've "wanted" for in my life fall less into the "needs" category and more into the "wants" category...i haven't gone without...i haven't suffered...

...In reality...i'm basically one of those suburban white kids who learned every single word with "Ain't Nuthin But a G thing" long before she actually knew what a "G" was. I'm the kiddo that started listening to Public Enemy because Flavor Flav and his giant clocks were a good gimmick...initially missing most of Chuck D and Professor Griff were so.damn.angry.about. 

And I'm not stating in the slightest that my struggles have been on par with the struggles faced by any of my favorite rappers. 

What I am stating is...to me...they have been every bit as real. 

So lately, as I listen to Wu...or bump some Nas on my way home...i'm thinking "the struggle is real" because to me...the struggle has been real. I've been waking up every morning, struggling to figure out how I am going to get through my day. Trying to figure out how I'm going to make myself seem like a rational, literal adult. 

How I can behave in a manner that does not reveal the hurt, anger, resentment, humiliation, pain and tragedy...which have been all too real in my life...how can I keep those feelings in check...I need an outlet...

I'm trying to change the game...not let the game change me...

...and sometimes that can't be done nicely and with bubble letters. Sometimes that can only be done by pure, unadulterated rage. 

So I connect with these songs on that level. On the rage level. On the need for respect level. On the "you won't give me respect so i'll take it" level. I feel every raw emotion most of these songs are putting out...the very visceral need for a reaction. In lieu of that, the very visceral need to create a reaction. To go out and take what should be yours and damn the consequences. 

Tiger-style...we've got to fight the powers that be. 

All though, we all have to admit that the "powers that be" are different for each of us. 

Maybe all Nas needed was one mic, but what I need is one keyboard. One chance to tell my own story. One chance to bring my own ruckus. 

To be "meaner, badder, stronger and more ferocious." 

Cause sometimes you gotta get knocked down to get up.

So (yo) bum rush the show...you've gotta go with what you know.

Because much like my brothers in Shaolin, I ain't nuthin to fuck with.

are you okay?

i deactivated my Facebook account and totally freaked out my best friend in the process. it wasn't intentional, the freak out part...i honestly didn't think anyone would notice for awhile...but she noticed within a few hours, which i supposed might say something about our friendship. 

but more it was that she texted me...and obviously had run the flag up to our group. I've mentioned it before, but there is something a little calming about ones best friends circling the wagons. It's even more calming if it happens to be around you. 

i deactivated my fb because i needed a little break from social media. at least in large format social media. twitter is basically worthless and instagram takes entirely too much work...just about 12 people read this blog...and i know them all already...

Much to my chagrin, i'm not an internationally famous blogger. Although i looked at my analytics once and discovered that i had a large amount of readers (like 4!) in Moscow. I am going to assume that these are all spambots.

Spambots with great taste in the literary adventures of someone who badly needs an editor...but spambots...and it's a little much to ask ASC to edit my blog. I already send her the writing that is "really important". But that's why you have friends who are English teachers...grammarians if you will.

I received a Facebook email that served to create a "link in the chain" creating at least a decade worth of information and fact. It shocked me to get, but then it didn't shock me either. 

I've always known who she was, I was a little jealous of her. I always thought that she got the better Smash. She got the one who wasn't all damaged and cruel...the one who didn't lie about absolutely everything. She got the one who wasn't scouting backpages and craigslist and god knows what else looking for "ladyboys" or whatever else. The one who didn't cheat on her. 

She had never found a picture taken in her own bed, with her own comforter and her own carefully pintrested dresser in the background...of her boyfriends "goods" that was part of an on-going back and forth conversation with a transvestite from craigslist. 

She had gotten the "good" Smash. 

Except that she hadn't. 

It turns out that we got the same guy, five years apart. It turns out that she contemplated contacting me all the way back to 2009... It turns out I really wish she had. 

The only difference, honestly, was technology. She had porn line phone calls, I had porn website memberships and craigslist and back pages. (Interesting to note that i didn't even know that there was a casual encounters portion of craigslist prior to finding my own boyfriend's use of it. After that, i learned a lot. including that he had actually posted ads looking for "ladybois" to come to him...remind me again why i feel so horrible about everything?)

But otherwise it was the same...the same lies, the same transvestites (figuratively), same nylons, roleplaying, the same strange fetish related sex...the same insatiable need for something neither of us ever could...or ever wanted...to be.

The same feeling like an object and not a person.

We both encountered situations where we were told that we were the only one and he was seeing someone else...we both were told a variety of untruths about that situation. We both had a colorful explosion where he got caught. Again, the same lies...although it's interesting to note in her iteration of the story...which is 5 years prior to mine, both girls figured out together that tall tall tales he had been telling...

We both agree that he's charming and we both fell for it. But she's years beyond me and her hurt is a distant memory...mine is still very real. We both fell for those pretty blue eyes and the lies that came out of that mouth...

...and we are both smart, educated and together girls...

It made me feel better to know that I'm not the only one...but then it made me feel sad that he's been like this for that long. 

So I deactivated Facebook to clear my head. It needs it. In the middle of all this we also had a BLIZZARD in the city of Chicago. I was at the hotel the entire time...actually never leaving and spending the entire time as Manager on Duty. like whoa...that made for an interesting few days. Luckily I am often too lazy to bring my dry cleaning from my office to my car, let alone take it from my car up to the house, so I had plenty of outfit choices. It took me almost an hour to dig myself back into my garage and up the back steps to the back door. I was pissed off the entire time. Shovel by shovel...in dress pants because I had gone into work for a bit this morning to have a meeting with one of my teams, despite it being a day off for me. 

But my best friend asked if I was okay...and i'm not sure how to answer that question presently. Nothing is okay honestly. Between the stress of work and the things going on there which I have no control over and the hours i've been putting in over there...to coming home to a house that is a complete tornado and having no energy to take care of it. It was a major victory that i shoveled, honestly. I keep getting lost in thought and find myself 2 hours later staring at the exact same spot on the wall. Where did two hours go? and exactly what was I thinking about? 

But the wagons are circling and there's comfort there. 

I'm not okay...but I'm on the way to great.

pencils...

there will have to more about this at a later date and a later time. But one of my best friends sent me this and i love it almost as much as i love her.