All the Small Things

One of my friends put on her Facebook status that she was sitting in a car making out with her husband. Now, I know that seems kind of like a dumb thing to post, but it makes me smile and I think there should be more pleasantness around here. Here's to making out with husbands! (Or wives!)

Kids, this is where babies come from. Source

Snap Out of It, Negative Nancy!

 

Misery may be my totem spirit. Source


Yeah, this hasn't been the happiest place to be lately, has it? I apologize. I'm known for many things, but my cheery outlook ain't one of em'. That being said, I'm going to make a real effort to be more positive. It's going to be hard and I am opposed to the difficult, but I've heard that overcoming obstacles builds character, so I'm willing to give it a go. Again.

There are good things - Yesterday I began to write about the life and times of Cecil, The Elusive Bavarian Snow Lizard. It's a children's story that I made up a long time ago when I thought I was going to move to Germany. Since I cannot think of anything else to write about I decided to work on fleshing out Cecil's story. It made more sense than sitting at the computer for hours staring at a blank page. Who knows, maybe it will be a children's book for adults, like Go the F*ck to Sleep. Cecil, by the by, is a white Elusive Bavarian Snow Lizard with a blue neck fin. He stands 3 3/4 inches high and walks on his hind legs like a Basilisk lizard. He hates to fly, and as such, he is wintering in Munich while the rest of the Elusive Bavarian Snow Lizards have gone to Tahiti. He plans to become a ski instructor.

The diet routine has been going well. The gym thing is not coming so quickly as I hate to give up part of my Sprout free morning at the gym as they have childcare anyway. I need to ask the babysitter if I can start bringing her a little later. That way I can get the gym out of the way first thing. I did manage to work out on Tuesday, and I am still feeling it today. That's a good thing. I am updating the blog, that's a positive. I've also been making it a point to listen to peppier music. That means lots of Lady Gaga. I think I've got a Spice Girls CD somewhere around here . . . damned if I know where. I'm listening the The Streets on YouTube. That's upbeat. Yeah.

I sound like I'm trying to convince myself, huh? Really, there are things for me to be happy about. Thankful for. I applied for a job yesterday, which if I get it will be a pretty good gig. It's 20 hours a week but the listed salary is $24,000 - $25,000 a year. That's pretty good. It would relieve some of the pressure I am feeling, that's for sure. Maybe then I would have some inspiration to write about something other than little blue and white lizards. Additionally, I won't have to do English Major math to figure out how to pay for certain things (Alice Cooper tickets, dance lessons, baby showers, personal organizers).

As for that Sprout - where can I begin? She's growing like a weed! She's into everything which is vexing, but it's really good as well because that means she's curious. She is a baby on the move, so when she's not exploring everything (including the top of the stove and the knife drawer) she's just moving her little body. She has become quite the little jitter-bug as of late. Whenever she hears any music either on the radio or TV she's bustin' a move. It's the best. It might just be my favorite thing about her right now. I cannot wait until next fall when she can start Creative Movement classes. Lately, she's become stingy with her hugs and kisses and "No!" is her favorite word. I think that's probably a good thing. I wouldn't want her to be indiscriminate with her love. 

She's a little parrot as of the moment, which means the end of Mommy and Daddy's life of swearing with reckless abandonment is imminent. I'm sure that is as it should be. I swear more than anyone I know. I think it's a wearing the ovaries on the outside thing. Kind of like my drinking habits. "I will drink and cus and man here under the table. Bring it." Not exactly a good trait in a parent. The drinking I've found was far easier to kick than the swearing. Although, for the past couple of days I've been eyeballing the Tanqueray with the thought of killing the bottle. Straight. See, I do have self control!

One last thing that made me happy this week: Netflix has a KidzBop dance video. So, I AM going to learn to dance to "Telephone" by Beyonce and Lady Gaga. If a bunch of 10 year olds can't teach me how to dance, there may be no hope for me.

My Heart is Breaking Into a Thousand Tiny Pieces

I was a fucking seashell. Source

The summer between 9th and 10th grade - the summer before I started going to Palatka High School - the summer after I failed my first class and put myself out on a limb forever for LGBT rights - I spent a month in New Haven, Connecticut taking college classes at Yale.

It was a political science summer school for very clever high school students such as myself. We stayed in the dorms at Silliman Hall, attended two very intensive seminars six days a week, and made like we were the genuine article at this institution of higher learning.

Silliman Hall: Sorta Like Hogwarts

I couldn't tell you jack about the classes I took - it's been way too long. I remember spending a lot of time in the stacks of the library, there was a lot of reading and writing going on, and in the few moments I had to myself  I indulged my budding interest in glam rock. New Haven was where I began my love affair with Lou Reed. When I came home with The Velvet Underground and Nico GT and my mom wanted to burn the thing after listening to "European Son" one time. In truth, they wanted to burn all the CDs I came home with to varying degrees - the only possible exception being a 90s Alternative Compilation CD that by comparison sounded pretty innocuous.

I remember being home from my adventure, sitting in my room, in a lawn chair, in the dark, listening to The Goo Goo Dolls "Name" over and over and over wrapped in a blanket and pining for the few friends I had made that summer. A continuing theme in my life is that I am lousy at correspondence, so after a couple of letters were exchanged, 9-11 happened and life got the better of me. Part of my would love to know what became of them, but another part feels better not knowing what a failure this JSA Yale alumnus turned out to be. There are a couple of people I wish I had stayed in touch with. I found out in doing a little research that my nemisis died in 2007. I got in touch with him at some point after high school. That makes me a little ill. His fiance was pregnant with their child at the time.

Classes? Names? No. Music Store? Yes. Source

But it was fun, wasn't it? Just thinking about it, I get the same kind of electric butterflies I used to get falling in love. I feel like I'm suffocating and I want to cry and scream and run forever. It's a wonderful and terrible and beautiful and harrowing feeling. I was there and I fucked it all up. I lost it. I could have been somebody. I could have lived that life. I could have spent my every last at Cutler's Music and studied writing and literature and politics and followed in the footsteps of so many people I love and admire. But I pissed it all away. I loved it there. I really, really loved it. And I loved who I was when I was there. I wasn't fucked up. I wasn't an extension of someone else. There was no Daniel. There was no Odis. There was only me. And I was alive. I was beautiful. I was a scholar. Oh my god! I had work ethic! I barely remember, but I know I had it. I know it! I had drive and goals and dreams. I want so much to be that person.

I know what Terry Malloy was going through. Oh God, I'm crying. I hate Elia Kazan, but dammit, I am Terry Malloy.

Being Cultured While Broke

The Height of Culture. Source

I like the opera. A lot. My first semester at UWF, I was score tickets to La Traviata for the low, low price of $15. I sat in these nosebleed seats that were too small for a 5th grader for hours in rapt attention watching these people moving around the stage singing in a language I didn't understand. Thankfully, there was a small scrim at the top of the stage that displayed the English translation. It didn't really matter though. You could pretty much surmise what was going on. It didn't hurt that La Traviata is more or less the same story as Moulin Rouge. Just about everything great is based on something classical and greater. For some reason unknown to me, I was never able to make it to another show while living in Pensacola. No matter, I had been bitten by the opera bug.

I joined an opera Meetup group while I lived in Raleigh, which allowed me to get a healthy dose of culture for free. The organizers were these two middle aged "roommates" (I asked no questions, I was drinking their wine and eating their cheese) who had pretty much ever opera DVD known to man in their home library. They had an entire wall inlaid with bookshelves. Very tasteful. Full of Opera. Sadly, I discovered this group about a month before I had to move, so I only got together with them a few times before moving to Savannah - the black hole where culture goes to die.

I don't want to really get into a city bashing rant at the moment, but I will say this: Savannah offers a very good illusion of culture. A non dairy culture substitute, if you will. I am not impressed. There's a lot of history here, but that's about all the place has got going for it in my opinion. There's so much "diversity" that it's really not diverse at all. It reminds me of a circus. I like the circus, don't get me wrong, but I like it because it's novel. If that was all there was it would be boring and trite. That's Savannah.

But there's hope! There's hope! j^C and I went to the movies on Friday; a rare occurrence these days. I will be so happy when That Sprout is old enough to go to the movies. So. Effing. Happy. Anyway, while I was standing in line to buy a soda that I never got, I noticed an advertisement on the huge screen in the lobby.

THE MET: LIVE IN HD

WAGNER'S RING CYCLE ENCORE

I didn't think much about it until this morning, but now I've decided that I am going to go. Fandango told me that it's going to cost me $15 per show. So, I'm going to be shelling out a total of $60 to basically go to the movies. Alas. It will take all the quarters in my crab cup and all of next week's allowance to pull it off. I am going to the theater this afternoon in order to buy my first ticket. In quarters. That oughtta be fun. I feel so sophisticated. I also feel like they're going to turn me away as though I were freakin' Freddie the Freeloader trying to get a Christmas Dinner.

I'm goin' to the Opera!

I Remember Everything

What have I become? Source

"I remember everything."

That was once my mantra. My identity. I was the keeper of the past. I knew who went out with whom, when, and in what order. I kept track of times, places, dates, birthdays, anniversaries, and esoteric holidays that we made up between classes that everyone else forgot. "Happy Cornbread Cult Day!" I would say as I showed up with a plate of the stuff. I would receive blank stares in return. "Don't ya'll remember? We decided that April 30th would be Cornbread Cult Day?" Everyone thought I was a weirdo, but they weren't going to refuse my famous Cajun Cornbread. These are the things that supplied a good deal of my angst as a teenager.

So what happened? Now, it seems, I remember nothing. I go through days as though in a fog. Birthday cards pile up waiting to be mailed months after their due dates. I buy things and then lose them. I then buy replacements and lose them as well. Eventually, I might find all of the items at the exact moment after I've bought and used a second round of replacements. I forget about bills, appointments, and a myriad of very important although mundane things.

Yesterday, I forgot to take That Sprout back to the doctor to follow up on her TB test.  Hopefully, I can bring her in this morning and it will be fine. All they have to do is look at the test area and tell me that she's fine. I walked around in circles all day yesterday wondering what I was forgetting. I knew there was some essential bit of house work I was supposed to do, but what? I also knew that I was feeling really low for some unknown reason. I fought it off as long as I could,  but I found myself breaking down in tears in the Target Pharmacy because I felt guilty about having Zaxby's for lunch. While that was less than ideal, it did not warrant the tears I found myself fighting for the rest of the day.

By the time I got home it was close to quitting time for j^C and I realized I hadn't started dinner either. I had just sat down at the computer to look for a quick chicken recipe when he pulled into the drive. He got off early. It was then that I remembered the essential piece of housework I'd neglected: I was supposed to clean off my dresser so that we could hook up the PS3 in the bedroom. Shit. I begged off for another day, and started dinner still in a foul mood. I was sad and I didn't know why I was sad, so that made me mad. I knew it could have to do with PMS or whatnot, but that explanation just didn't cut it. After dinner and some quality time with the family, I went to bed fairly early and tossed and turned all night.

This morning, I realized what the sadness was about. I was lying in bed half awake and in a moment of clarity, I remembered. Yesterday was Heather's birthday. When we were kids, this event was usually marked by a sleepover at her house full of scary movies and press on nails and all her friends who seemed to merely tolerate me. I was a year younger, but between March 3 and May 2, we were the same age. I always liked that. For a little while I was one of the big girls. I wanted so bad to be older and to fit in. Now, I'll always be older than her. It feels strange realizing that. She's going to be 24 forever and I'm just going to keep getting older before I die.

Someone I used to love once told me that my mind is so preoccupied with the larger goings on of the universe that I can't be expected to remember the mundane. He said this after buying me my fifth replacement gas cap. I think about that statement a lot nowadays. Even though my mind forgot to remember Heather yesterday, I don't think the rest of me did. I might forget bills and chores but I remember the important things. I remember how I always thought she smelled like magnolias and gardenia and how long and pretty her fingernails were. There's a lot more than that, and maybe I'll write about it some day. I want her sons to remember their mom like I do, but I can't do it today. It hurts too much to remember right now.

I Can't Dance

Am I doin' it right? Source

I love dancing. I love the idea of it and I love the reality of it. I love watching people dance, which would explain my love of music videos and musical theater. I love to dance myself. Sadly, dancing does not love me. I have no rhythm and no grace. I imagine this has something to do with having never been comfortable in my own skin. I decided over the past month however, that I was going to finally learn to dance. After a lot of research, I decided on belly dancing, as there are no adult hip hop classes. Last night I went to my first class. For an hour I shook my hips, flexed my abs, shimmied and swayed. Most of my energy was spent meticulously watching my instructor and trying to mimic her movements and footwork. What little energy was left went to hating her and myself. Her for being so beautiful and so confident and me for feeling neither.

If I hadn't been there with the intention of learning to dance, the teacher would have been a joy to watch. The whole night, all I could think was "She is in love with herself". I know that sounds bad, but I don't mean for it to. I wish I were in love with myself. When the music was playing it was as if she couldn't not move. She was in love with her body, she loved what she was doing with her body, and maybe she was even in love with life. She was so graceful and beautiful and all sorts of other adjectives I wish I were. While she was gliding around like some kind of ethereal flower goddess, I was trying to figure out a way to dance while folding up inside of myself at the same time.

I tried. I does not work.

There's no room for ego, self consciousness, or inhibition in dancing. It is the celebration of your physical form. I'm sure people who are not secure in their bodies can dance, but not me. This is, however, not for lack of trying on my part.

In the eighth grade after much diet and exercise, I had lost 40 pounds and decided that I was going to try out for the Freshman cheerleading squad. Why not? I could do a split and I was thin(ner). Surely I could make the squad. I had these great plans of wearing my cheerleading uniform with KISS makeup to the following year's homecoming game. (I was REALLY into hair metal back then. In hindsight, Alice Cooper makeup may have been more appropriate.)

So, tryouts come and I go to the camp for a whole week. I thought we were going to learn flips and cheers and all that sort of "Totally - Fer Shure!" crap. Nay nay. The tryout mostly consisted of learning and performing a choreographed dance routine. Since when did our cheerleaders dance? I thought to myself. The answer was "Never". It turned out that the year I decide to try out was the same year CCJSHS got a new cheerleading coach. She was a thin, blond, birdlike woman who in perpetuity became known as "The Evil Blond Bird Bitch". Having been a cheerleader in college or something, she had plans to turn our rag tag group of misfit cheerleaders into a well oiled "Bring it On" caliber dancing and cheering machine. I had never taken a dance class in my life and I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

The first day, The EBBB ran through the whole dance routine and I'm sure as I watched my eyes were bugging out of my head. "You expect me to learn that in a week? Surely, you jest." For the next four days, I was committed to learning those dance steps. Everyday after school all of the cheerleading hopefuls met in the gym for an hour - maybe longer - to learn this routine. I think we broke it down section by section, but it all went by so fast. I kept thinking "Wait! Slow down! Can't I take some notes? Draw me a picture, or something!" No such luck.

The only ace I had up my sleeve was the fact that I was friends with the current cheerleading captain and she was in my gym class during the day. With her help and kind encouragement, I thought maybe I could pull it off. I tried so hard to learn all the steps. I don't even remember what the song was anymore, but I still remember being in my back yard every night that week with my boombox blaring Duran Duran's "Thank You" album trying to master that routine.

Friday came, and I had my tryout. I did my very best. It's actually one of the last times I remember working so hard for something. I was really proud of myself. I was truly hopeful that I would make it.

At around 6, my mom drove me back up to the school so I could look at the list posted on the door. I didn't make it. I tried really hard to take it in stride, but I was disappointed. I guess anyone would be. I tried to be upbeat. I blamed my failure on the fact that I had made my KISS makeup plans known. I blamed my thinner, but not thin enough figure. I blamed the EBBB. OK, so I was mad. After all, me and one other girl were the only ones who could do a split. (I have always been very proud of my flexibility.) Thankfully, I had the weekend to get over it, and a big English project to work on besides.

By the following Friday, the sting had passed and I was very involved in my English project - a living museum in which I had a large speaking role. Our class was divided into groups of four, each having to act out a different scene from some book. We set up in the library and other classes came in and watched us do our scenes. When the scene was done, we were supposed to be really still like wax figures.

Well, wouldn't you know, the EBBB brought her class round to see our little project. I don't remember what our scene was about, but I remember I was a grieving mother and there was a point went I had to start wailing about my dead offspring. It was quite over the top, but I have never been shy about embarrassing myself in that sort of capacity. It was appropriate to the scene at any rate, and I felt like I was making up for my group mates who were much more subdued. This was entertainment, people! We had to put on a show!

I tried to ignore the EBBB when she came round and performed my part as though I were not trying to save face after blowing my tryout. Apparently, it worked. A short time later, I happened to cross paths yet again with the EBBB who told me "Acting is your forte." I'm sure that it was meant as a compliment, but at the time, it came across as "Acting is your forte; cheering is not". It kind of reopened the wound. Thankfully, the school year was nearly over, so I only had a week or two to stew about it before I was distracted by the goings on of summer.

I forgot about dancing until I was in the 10th grade. I had switched highschools and found myself in a very eclectic group of friends led  by Josh Gilyard, the best hip hop dancer and choreographer I have ever known. He's also the only one I've ever known, but he really is super talented. Dance was his passion and Janet Jackson was his hero. Being from a small town in Florida, there are very few opportunities for a young man to showcase his dancing and choreographing prowess. There were a few talent shows throughout the year, but the big thing was a fundraiser for the March of Dimes - The Lipsync Contest. It was pretty straightforward. People would sign up as individuals or groups to lipsync to a song. The best performance won a prize. And we were going to be the best.

The first year, Josh decided we would do "Lady Marmalade" from Moulin Rouge which was the biggest thing since sliced bread at the time. He gathered a group of us girls and proceeded to teach us the dance. Although I was sure by this time that I could not learn dance steps, Josh proceeded to try to work me into the routine. He quickly gave up when he saw that I had not been exaggerating and I was relegated to the part of Missy Elliot - non dancing hype man.

This was all well and good until the day of the show came. There I was in a long, skintight black skirt, black, strappy, stripper heels, and a crushed velvet top hat. I was doing my hype thing. Then, a VERY CLUMSY DANCER knocked me over. I still don't know whether or not the whole school saw my whole world. As the skirt was so tight, I wasn't wearing any underwear. Everything else in the bit went off without a hitch though, and we won. Of course we won. We won every year until we graduated. And Josh never could teach me to dance. He was really good at finding a hype man position for me though.

My dancing days dwindled after high school. I got into the concert scene, and I wanted to shake my ass in front of the stage, but I quickly learned that the people who did that were the "weird" people at shows, and I don't want to be that guy. The exception to this rule is Duran Duran, because if I am at one of their shows, I am going to enjoy every minute of it and damn the nay sayers. I digress. The next time I was called upon to learn a dance was my last semester in college. I was an RA and for training, each staff was required to do a dance number at the retreat. Or something. It was stupid. The chicken dance was involved. Thankfully, it was so ridiculously easy that I was able to learn the steps in record time. We did not win anything though.

It was at this point that I met my other incredibly talented dancer friend, Captain Tesla. She lived and worked in the residence hall with me, and as we became friends, I learned that she did ballet and point. Maybe point indicates ballet in that statement, I'm not sure. I am sad to say the only time I have witnessed Captain Tesla dance was at the honors ball, where I saw her dance to "Thriller" as per the music video. It was pretty awesome. I have also seen a couple of videos from her ballet career which make me proud to call her my friend. I am not jealous of Captain Tesla's ability to dance, just amazed by it. That may be what defines friendship - gracefully transcending jealousy.

By the by, I am a very jealous person. Indeed. It's a very nasty trait that stems from a deep seeded self loathing. Also, I don't like being bad at things. These two things are a dangerous combination and they most often come into play when I am trying some new physical activity. Like dancing.

I'm Baaaaaaaaaack!

I'm Baaaaaaaaaaaaack! Source

Dear readers, I apologize for my absence. The end of j^C's Magical Mystery Tour came and brought with it a month and a half of readjusting and utter pandemonium. Yesterday was his first day back at work after our month long vacation. I could have written to you all yesterday I suppose, but it seemed better to wait for the first of the month. I'm like that. Despite my lack of organization, I really do like nice clean lines. Also, today was That Sprout's first day back at the babysitter's, so I have a few moments to myself again.

I don't have a lot to report - the month of April was a blur. We went to Florida for Easter weekend. Then, we had a little over a week at home, which was punctuted by a 14 hour ER visit with That Sprout. She had a 103.9 temperature and she wouldn't eat or drink. After all that time, they gave her an IV and told us to go home, it was a virus. I'm still waiting on the bill. Thank everything that's holy for insurence. Then we were with j^C's parents in Greenville, SC for a few days. After that, we were in Raleigh, NC over night, then finally on to Hilton Head Island. That part was pretty awesome. We got to stay in a half million dollar condo walking distance from the beach - FOR FREE! I want to live in this place. It was lovely. I must write my thank you card to the owner ASAP. I could have stayed there for the rest of my life.

All of our travels ended Saturday, and now we are trying to get back into the swing of every day life. I was informed this morning that the Magical Mystery Tour 2.0 is scheduled for March of 2013. I am not so thrilled about this, but there's not a lot I can do about it. It's all very uncertain for now, anyway. In the meantime, I am have decided to work on some professional development type things in order to make myself more marketable. I plan to start a beginning HTML class in a few weeks, as well as a refresher course on grammar. One way or another, I will figure out a way to be somewhat financially independent, or I'll die trying.

I really hope I don't die trying. That would suck.

I do hope to at least be as good with money as Kyle's Cousin Kyle though. He is so my favorite South Park character.