Silence Implies Consent

Interesting title to this blog post, eh? But lemme get something straight, my silence of the past six months doesn’t mean I’m consenting to anything! It just means I’ve been lazy as hell and didn’t feel like posting anything…until now (evil laugh follows).

As you can see by the pic I’m rocking’ yet another b-day tattoo. Isn’t that a beast of a tattoo? Shout out to Pat, my tattoo artist at Green Man Tattoo Studio who rocked that ink like a hurricane. Yes, I’m embracing that astrology-Scorpio nonsense and this year has tested every aspect of my Scorpio characteristics…but in a good way. Though the year hasn’t been stellar as far as the job hunt and love life goes, nevertheless I have endured the difficulties and rode the up and down waves like a champ. Perhaps my age is mellowing me out, perhaps the fears that use to grip me have totally dissipated, perhaps that secret stash of Ganga was laced with something special, perhaps the anti-psychotic medication has kicked in, squelching those annoying homicidal thoughts…uh…forget those last two…really! Forget them…or I’ll come to you house and…

For the past three months or so I’ve been embracing annoyingly cutesy female…stuff, hence the doggie slippers pictured. I’m buying stuffed animals, colorful flannel nightshirts, gravitating to (gasp!) pink clothing instead of my signature blue, and all and all becoming what I fear the most: a soft and pink spinster. I don’t wanna be soft and pink, but I’m oh so slowly going in that direction; I want to drink a small aperitif of sherry before I retire for the night, I bought a tea kettle just for its whistle, I want to visit Joann Fabrics to get some Christmas crap to spruce up the friggin’ wreath on my front door so it looks more festive.   All the things I didn’t give a rat’s ass about before.  Ok, I know the knitting thing was pushing me in that spinster direction, but I thought the tattoo stuff would keep it all at bay.  And I seem to be settling into this rhythm of watching marathons of “Monk,” “House,” and “Psych;” reminiscing about the 80s watching re-runs of “Matlock,” “Cagney & Lacey,” and “In The Heat of the Night” and wishing I could own a cheesy Saturday Night Special like those cops do. I post statuses on Facebook to the effect that they don’t make TV shows like that anymore. I diagnosed my sick, diarrhea-ridden Bichon Frise using techniques from Gregory House (you ever try squirting Pepto Bismal into a dog’s mouth using a child’s medicine syringe? It ain’t pretty).  I passionately defended Andy Griffith’s antics in the courtroom as my sons ridiculed me and shouted, “That’s bogus, yo! They don’t do that shit on ‘Law and Order’!”  I have gratefully stopped short of carrying wet naps like Adrian Monk and calling myself  “MC Clap Your Hands” (“Psych” reference).  Do you get what the flurp I’m saying? I HAVE NO LIFE! (sob!)

Now, to change this state of affairs I could get out and join some kind of activity group, like a photography or book club. The problem with that is I’m a firm believer in the following George Carlin quote:

“I don’t like ass kissers, flag wavers or team players. I like people who buck the system. Individualists. I often warn people: “Somewhere along the way, someone is going to tell you, ‘There is no “I” in team.’ What you should tell them is, ‘Maybe not. But there is an “I” in independence, individuality and integrity.’” Avoid teams at all cost. Keep your circle small. Never join a group that has a name. If they say, “We’re the So-and-Sos,” take a walk. And if, somehow, you must join, if it’s unavoidable, such as a union or a trade association, go ahead and join. But don’t participate; it will be your death. And if they tell you you’re not a team player, congratulate them on being observant.”

I don’t doubt George, not one damn bit because I’ve experienced first hand how annoying and fanatical people in groups can be when I made the mistake of attempting to socialize earlier this year with a photography group. They caught on to my fraudulence after my avoidance of the numerous cheery emails trying to arrange this and that field trip, and dropped me for non-participation.   A weaker person would meet them in person and set fire to their expensive-ass cameras.   But I have more class than that, I’ll just send nasty emails telling them to take their lame, clique-y club and shove it up their…

Though things haven’t been terribly peachy for me this year, something symbolic happened right in my front yard one early Sunday morning. My town, in an effort to avoid another catastrophic power loss like the one Connecticut had in early November, authorized the cutting down of trees near power lines. One such tree stands majestically in my front yard, and it stood tall and proud during that freak October snow storm with nary a branch lost. So imagine my surprise when the peace and quiet of my Sunday morning was disrupted by power saws and wood chippers. My beautiful tree, which is probably as old as my 83-year-old house, was being butchered mercilessly. I was near tears. The town never sent notice of this occurrence and I resented this intrusion of government on my private property. Every branch cut felt like an attack on me personally; the tree never hurt a soul, it provided protection from the heat on the house in the summer and provided a burst of color in autumn. The arborists straight up did a hatchet job with no respect for symmetry or careful shaping. In short, the tree was me, getting hacked away piece by bloody piece from forces outside my control.

And then I caught a grip and realized the tree itself wasn’t cut down, just the branches. It can still grow and adapt from what was taken, and may even grow stronger. It can take on a new shape and form that could be even more attractive than before, in time. The important thing was it was still standing! Life has taken bits and pieces from me, but I’m still here and will continue to be here until the forces that be decide it’s time for me to call it quits:

I’m still standing
Better than I ever did
Looking like a true survivor
Feeling like a little kid
—Elton John

If you haven’t caught on by now, my blog is all about teaching you something. According to my astrological chart it’s my nature. Take my tree metaphor and run with it, remember it the next time life deals you a bad hand and take my words of wisdom into the new year. If you must make new year’s resolutions, add this to the list:

I will remain standing

All my love,
The Tasmanian Devil

 

Back on the scene….sort of

Oh yes, dear readers, I’ve been off the radar for a LOOOOOOOOOO (gasp for air)OOOOONG time. Didja ya miss me? Tell me you did, I need your love…gimme, gimme, I need, I need!

All kinds of neat braindroppings have been piling up in my head lately. The piles have been building up like elephant droppings, so if I don’t release them from my devious mind soon it might get ugly. So off we go, let the trumpets blow, and hold on because the driver of the mission is a pro (shout out to Slick Rick).

Braindropping #1 – With summer alive and kicking, I’ve noticed way too many out-of-state drivers on Connecticut highways. To be precise, New York drivers. For whatever reason, when they pass the border of Connecticut they drive like grandma behind the wheel of a 1976 Cadillac. Apparently, they aren’t familiar with the three lane highway and the concept of passing lane, travel lane and slow lane. Hey you with the New York license plate, if you want to drive like Grandma Moses, do it in the slow lane NOT the travel lane fouling up the flow of traffic. So to all you New Yorkers invading our somewhat beautiful state, I want you to all go back from whence you came and drive like the maniacs I know you are capable of being. If you don’t go back, we’re gonna invade YOUR empire state, cut you off as much as possible, use the E-ZPass line when we only have cash, flip you the finger to show we can be just as obnoxious as you, and breakdown right in the middle of the Whitestone, Tapanzee, and any other bridge your state has. If you don’t heed my warning, we’ll send Massachusetts drivers down there who’ll foul up your traffic flow in a way that’ll make you pull out your Glock, and who’ll use “wicked”, “cah” and “pahk” (translation: car and park) in every other sentence. Then you’ll really be sorry.

Braindropping #2 – I’ve been reading the news about all these sex scandals with these politicians. First Arnold Schwarzenegger, then what’s-his-face from New York who inappropriately tweeted nasty pics of himself (given his looks, I’m sure what he’s got to tweet wasn’t all that much to look at). Okay, lemme say this about that. Why is everyone in such an uproar over the fact that men cheat on their wives, have babies with women other than the one they married, and send I’m-too-sexy pics of themselves to strange women they’ve never met? Because they hold a government office we should expect that they’re not human or just as nasty as the average horny male? I raise the bullshit flag on that one, my friend. A man is a man is a man, and if he’s got an itch he’s gonna scratch it, only this dude was using Twitter to scratch his itch thinking he wasn’t cheating if he doesn’t get his (beep!) wet. Do you know how many pics of erect tallywhackers are out there floating around on the Internet? I was on a chat app on my iPhone and I sent a message to a guy commenting on how serious he looked in his profile pics and that he should lighten up, and he responded with a pic of his schlong, hand in a death grip around the base of it like a baseball bat to make the veins pop and everything. I was like, “whoa, partner, that’s SO NOT what I was looking for” and I quickly blocked him. How nasty is that? You don’t know me from a can of paint and you’re sending me a pic of your privates? Here’s a fact of life people: some men cheat. Remember that one simple fact and you won’t get so upset over a politician having a love child. Oh and by the way, check your history people because Arnold ain’t the first man to do it.

Braindropping #3 – I’ve become quite a buppie. I’ve been gravitating to Starbucks lately, sipping on my grande bold pick of the day in a venti cup (space for dairy) and nibbling on pumpkin bread or iced lemon loaf. Linen capri pants have become my best-est friend and I sashay around town with my cute Dooney & Burke East/West tote (compliments of the layaway option at TJ Maxx) and my Anne Klein charm bracelet watch (compliments of a kick ass auction on E-Bay). To break up the monotony of sitting in the house all day during summer break, I venture forth to my closest Starbucks with my iPod and SkullCandy earphones and knit away. About two weeks ago I chatted up an older woman in the line while waiting for my caffeine fix and as our eyes scanned the goodies behind the window, we got on the subject of how ridiculously priced a little red velvet whoopie pie the size of a quarter was and she gave me a lead on two places where you get more bang for your baked goods buck. “There’s a bakery on Main Street that sells cupcakes that are bigger than that for only three dollars!” she said with a smile. Three dollars? Lemme tell you something, for three bucks that cupcake better give me the orgasm of my lifetime. Notice I use the personal pronoun “my” instead of the indefinite article “a,” which shows I’m taking possession of said orgasm. And that orgasm had better be the type that make my eyes roll into the back of my head and make me forget my name for a good minute or two. Hells bells, I can buy a box of cake mix and make cupcakes (plural tense) at home for three bucks. I know what you’re thinking. How can a woman who sips Starbucks; rocks Swarovksi jewelry, Anne Klein accessories, and Dooney & Burke bags; and will pay $10 for a skein of yarn be so flurpin’ (my newest substitute for the f-word) cheap? See, I don’t mind shelling out the dough for ladies accessories because I can wear them over and over, thus recouping the investment I’ve made in the purchase. But paying three bucks for a damn cupcake that will run through me in a day is something I just can’t get with.

Braindropping #4 – There’s something seriously wrong with me. I’ve been tempted to use the f-word….a lot and for no good reason than to have it slip from my lips. There’s a children’s book that just came out called, “Go The F**k To Sleep” by Adam Mansbach (warning: it’s a very tongue-in-cheek children’s book. Only the most demented parent would read this book to their child) and the audiobook with Samuel L. Jackson is a scream; no one says the f-word like Samuel L. Unfortunately I can’t post a link to the audiobook, which was at one time posted on YouTube but has subsequently been yanked by the publisher Audible because of copyright laws (but you can download for free if you click on the Audible link). But ever since I’ve listened to that audiobook, I’ve wanted to drop the f-bomb at least twice in a sentence for full effect, even though I chastised a six-year-old I was tutoring who used it one day. It’s ok if an old broad like me drops the f-bomb; hell, with all that I’ve gone through in my life I have earned the right to say it as much as I like, but when a six-year-old does it that’s not cool and it’s time to break out the leather belt for an old fashioned ass whoopin’. For all you parents who think it’s cute when little Johnny cusses, invite grandma over, stand little Johnny in the middle of the living room and have him say “F**k you, Grandma!”

Braindropping #5 – I’ve been slowly learning all these texting expressions that is strangling the English language: SMH (shaking my head), SMFH (shaking my f**kin’ head), MILF (mother I’d like to f**k), DTF (down to f**k), so on and so forth. Boy, you young people got nothin’ better to do than to think up this shit, huh? You mean “mother I’d like to f**k” has too many syllabus to text, eh? Here’s a suggestion: so that you don’t leave us old people in the dark you can always shorten the longer version instead of using the acronym! How about, “Mom2screw” or maybe, “Ma2f**k” in place of MILF? And what about “booTcall” in place of DTF? It’s cleaner and people from my generation would understand it better. And in place of SMH you could just use “damn!” (or dayum! if the offense is really horrific).

Braindropping #6 - I am tired of “Jersey Shore” and the person who a reporter from The New York Times described as “a turnip turned on its tip,” Snookie Polizzi. ‘Nuff said.

As the summer wears on, I’ll be sure to have more braindroppings for you to muse over. Until next time.

All my love,

The Tasmanian Devil

 

So long 2010, it’s been real

See the pic to the left? It’s a representation of what I’ve done this year. Rising from the ashes (that’s a loose representation of the phoenix bird by the way). And what a sweet rise it was, dear readers. I got tattoo number two on my birthday, when I turned 39 AGAIN (yeah, I officially decided to do the Jack Benny thing). An hour in the chair having a bitch fest with my tattooist over his nasty divorce as he inked me and voila! Another marking that will make it easier for my sons to identify my dead body should the need arise. Friggin’ awesome, eh? I felt like such a bad ass as I stepped out of the tattoo parlor and made my way to my eco-friendly Scion!

I know I’ve been off the radar with this blog, but if you read my last post you know I had an excuse: I was working my ass off. A number of pleasant surprises came from working said ass off: I lost a full dress size and replaced my wardrobe with a look that totally suits me thanks to Land’s End and NY & Co.; discovered aubergine is my color to wear for a formal affair, that my breasts (plus a really good halter bra) were made for a low-cut gown, and that I have incredible taste; and developed a growing desire to possess more pearls, Swarovski crystal and Anne Klein accessories. Although the first six months of this year totally sucked rocks through a paper straw, the second half gave me plenty to be thankful for. So here is my list of ten braindroppings (I’m on a George Carlin kick lately) for 2010 to carry you into 2011:

1. If someone from your past who treated you like shit shows up out of nowhere pretending to be more mature, enlightened, and that they have learned from their mistakes, RUN, FORREST, RUN! Lemme tell ya something, a leopard don’t change its spots and a piece of shit will always stink. Don’t be fooled if that mistake from your past shows up with a pine car freshener hanging from their ass; it’s camouflage.

2. Never hide your boobs under a bushel. Don’t worry about being the objectification of leering men because they can look, not touch (unless that’s your thang, then I say have fun with that). If you see a man’s eyes wander to your exposed mammories as they attempt to hold a conversation with you, straighten up your spine and hold your head high and quote Dolly Parton, “Speak up, darlin’, the left one is hard of hearin’.” Embrace the power!

3. I recommend that every person hit rock bottom at least twice in their life. When you hit bottom, go ahead and curl up in a ball and rock yourself like a person in an insane asylum. Cry if you must; it’ll get rid of water weight gain. Then wipe the snot from your nose, flip the world the finger, and get busy with the job of living.

4. Anger management is a crock of bull. Why on earth should you manage a normal human emotion that is often quite justified when faced with a certain situation? Only the idiots who let it get out of hand give anger a bad rap. If a person has wronged you without provocation why is it wrong to take a baseball bat to the rear windshield of their car? Isn’t it better than taking that bat to their head or other breakable body parts? Property can’t scream in pain or rat you out to the cops. Yeah, you may face a destruction of private property charge should you be caught, but isn’t that better than an assault or attempted murder rap?

5. Be careful who you call a friend. A real friend won’t tell you, “I’m so happy for you, that your life is going so well. No one deserves it more than you.” Seriously! A real friend knows your life is full of ups and downs and just rides it out with you like a rollercoaster. A real friend knows that if they point out the good stuff happening they might possibly jinx you so they keep their friggin’ mouth shut. Think about what I’m saying and you’ll find this to be true. Any “friend” who tells you they’re happy for you wants to take your place.

6. Never worry about working yourself into an early grave. Work hard, and then spend the money you earned by playing even harder. So what if you’re a little tired. You can rest when you’re DEAD.

7. If you receive blessings, never think you’re not worthy of them. Those blessings came to you for a reason and you should not question or doubt them. It’s the universe’s way of corrective action. But don’t take them for granted or it’ll be to your detriment. If you’re arrogant and say, “I deserve everything I got,” stand by for the universe to put the smack down on you and take away everything you’ve been given. Do you really want to be the moron standing with your hands outstretched blubbering, “whhhhhhy? wadda I do?”

8. You only cheat yourself by closing your heart to love. You give the person who broke your heart way too much power (refer to #3 on what to do in order to move on). To be clear, I’m not saying you should give it away like a drunken sailor on shore leave who’s just downed the worm from a tequilla bottle, just don’t close yourself to the possibility that it could happen.

9. With the new year a comin’ you may be tempted to make some resolutions. Don’t waste your time, please! Yeah, they look good on paper hanging from your refrigerator with a cutesy kitchen magnet, but let’s be honest with each other. Are you really gonna follow them? Lose weight, quit smoking, yadda, yadda, yadda. Make a promise to live goddamn it! Run down anyone who gets in your way; avoid small animals and endangered species.

AND finally….

10. Though this may seem a little lame, I’m gonna quote from Dr. Seuss’s (pronounced “soice” by the way) “Oh The Places You Will Go”: “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.”

All my love,

The Tasmanian Devil

(Happy New Year!)

 

Braindroppings

…isn’t that what George
Carlin called various musings and observations of
life? His braindroppings? I rather like that word. Yes, dear hearts, I know I’ve been off the radar for a while. But
I have a valid excuse. I have a life…well, at least until
December. You see I’ve been teaching like a mad woman this semester. Been busier than a one-legged woman in an ass kickin’ contest. My roller coaster
of a life decided to go up a steep hill and piled my plate full with three different places to teach plus a revised hobby of sorts, my radio show on Sundays on WECS FM,
my alma mater’s campus radio station. Scary that I’m responsible for molding the minds of a combined total of
approximately 65 students in three different areas and two separate
disciplines. Hell yeah it’s been a juggling act, but I’m up to the challenge of setting minds and the world on fire.
There are times when I get home, slip into bed to just relax, and wind up knocked out until midnight only to wake up briefly to let the dogs out before my head hits the pillow again with the same ease as I did earlier. Don’t get it twisted, I ain’t complaining a bit.

(Braindropping #1) At one particular institution I teach for I’ve grown quite fond of the students. We see each other three days a week (some times 4 days a week if they need my assistance) and through their writing, class discussions and personal interactions I’ve gotten to know them more than any of the other students I’ve taught to date. They’re sharp, adorable, passionate, and are not shy about expressing their opinion, which make class discussions extremely interesting. Plus they’re eager to learn from my twisted mind, half the battle
when it comes to teaching. When I first stood in front of them to impart my wisdom I was determined to keep my distance being I was only there for the fall semester. But those students
were having none of that. They wormed their way into my heart
and I find myself feeding them Reeces Peanut Butter Cups and popcorn, yelling at them as though all 45 of them
belong to me personally, and riding them like a jockey on Seabiscuit when an assignment is late. They make me laugh and forget my age, they show me crazy respect, and do their best to please…all because they know I’ve got their back. These young men and women help remind me
why I got into teaching and it’ll be difficult to leave them without shedding a tear or two…or three…

(Braindropping #2)
Oddly enough, with all that’s going on I’ve rediscovered the joy of reading, You have no idea how monumental this is, dear readers. You see, graduate school absolutely killed that simple joy. I couldn’t pick up a book without dissecting it for character development, plot, writing style, etc. This summer was a slow build up of that joy when I read some of the Mrs. Pollifax series by Dorothy Gilman. But what REALLY put the joy into overdrive was a charming little ole’ book called
“No Country For Old Men” by Cormac
McCarthy. Yes I saw the movie and loved it, but I wasn’t compelled to read the book until a student chastised me for not reading McCarthy during a morning class. Feeling ashamed I went to Barnes and
Noble that evening, read the first few pages as I stood in the bookstore and raised both arms in the air in a
touchdown signal. With each page I slipped deeper and deeper into a slow, intensely sweet seduction; each sentence tickled and caressed my insides like only a good book can. The teasing drove me to near delirum; the
pleasure was almost unbearable. When the end of the seduction arrived I was left breathless and open for more (can you tell I wrote romance once upon a time?). I followed that book with a cool non-fiction novel lent to me by a student, “Into Thin Air: A Personal Account of the Mt.
Everest Disaster” by Jon Krakauer. Now I’m devouring “The Maltese Falcon” by Dashiell Hammett. Waiting on the back burner are books by Stieg
Larsson, Kurt
Vonnegut, George Carlin, and WECS FM Live
Stream and even see me live in the studio via webcam. I play everything from Van Halen to Marvin Gaye so tune in. Until next time, my darlings.

Very truly yours,
The Tasmanian Devil

 

You can take the girl outta the city…

My younger brother (we’re 11 years apart), who I affectionately called Waterhead as a child (pictured right in his new apartment), is getting married in three weeks. I give him much props because he’s doing thangs in a way I should have: he dated his fiancé for 8 years (an educated gal with a Master’s in special ed); moved into a nice starter apartment in downtown Brooklyn earlier this year, which is a ten-minute drive from lovely Brooklyn Heights; and has been at the same job, which he loves, for almost ten years. Can you tell I’m a proud older sister? If I could get back…maybe…15 years of my life (sigh!) it’s no use crying over spilt milk. But enough about him, let’s get this blog entry on track and talk about me.

My brother, ever stressed about his upcoming nuptials, needed a wedding coordinator. Enter: big sister. It’s not as stressful as you might think; they only need me to make sure the wedding goes on schedule, to emcee the reception…oh yeah…and possibly write wedding vows. I’m tickled to do all of the above; lighting fires under people’s asses, running my mouth on a microphone, and writing love stuff is my bag, baby!

View of high-rise next door from my brother's living room window

So that nothing gets misinterpreted and I’m clear on what they expect from me ( ’cause I’m all about the clarity, I get irritable when confusion runs amuck) I decided to drive down to my place of birth, Brooklyn, New York, and check out my brother’s new digs. Lawdy, lawdy, has Brooklyn changed! Oh it’s still dirty, but there are so many new luxury high-rises competing for your attention you barely notice the grime. My brother showed me around his building (the heated swimming pool, the lounge area with movie theater, the exercise room, the basketball/racket ball court) before we settled down to business. Afterwards, there was only one thing that had to be done before I trekked back to Connecticut: eat, dammnit! My brother and his fiancé are avid diners, they eat, sleep and breathe the city so they took me to a New Yawk Italian restaurant in Brooklyn Heights.

View of Ellis Island from the Brooklyn Promenade

Even though I was born and partially-raised in Bedford-Styvesant, Brooklyn (we moved to Queens when I was 9), I’ve always had a special affinity for Brooklyn Heights. Walking the Brooklyn Promenade always renewed my energy as a New Yorker, a place where you could escape the rat race and just revel in the glory of the most busiest cities on the planet. I admit it was difficult to process it all and because I had been away from the city for 20 years I had to ask my brother to point out Staten Island, New Jersey, the Verrazano Bridge, Ellis Island, Governors Island, the Chrysler Building. But, oh, I had no problem IDing the Brooklyn Bridge or the South Street Seaport, my second favorite place in NY next to the Promenade.

View of the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan skyline

There were butterflies flittering and fluttering abound along that stretch of track; owners with their dogs sitting on benches with dog-eared paperbacks and mothers pushing the cadillac of strollers while basking in the bright sunshine. The New Yorker in me was pained to see the skyline without the twin towers, like a smile with missing front teeth, but I reveled in the beauty of the view nonetheless. With my trusty iPhone I took pictures like a tourist, desperate to record this wonderful moment in time when I reconnected with the city that shaped me. I have to thank my brother for that, he transferred his love for the city onto me for that brief moment. It was a great day and the next time I plan to bring my Canon Rebel to really do some damage. My brother is curious about Boston and I’m eager to take him on the T, the cleanliness of the Metro will blow his mind!

Could I be tempted to return to NYC? Perhaps. I’d be moving back on my own terms, 20 years older, wiser and a damn sight more educated than I was when I left. The demons that chased me out have vaporized thanks to time (read my last blog entry about my buddy, Time) and if they did try to return I have some aromatherapy oils to chase their asses back to where they came from. I’d have a chance to create new memories. I think what I long for the most is to love a place as much as my brother loves NYC. He embraces the grunginess, the skanky people, the loudness, the grimy streets. He rarely misses a Yankees game on the telly and he mourns The NY Nets constant failures. Anything north of Westchester county is too country for him and he would never agree with Staten Island seceding to Jersey, it would be like cutting off a pinky toe. I simply don’t have that kind of passion for the place I live in, that kind of appreciation for the good, the bad and the ugly.

I’m looking for a new love, honey (Jody Whatley reference). A place I can make my own. A town or city I can feel passion for and take pride in. It could be NY or Santa Fe, Maryland or Boston are in the running, or that place could be not too far away from where I am now. Finding that special place is half the fun, right? Wherever I do land, I’m ready for the adventure.

All my love,
The Tasmanian Devil

 

Piece of mind…would you like a slice?

If you read my last post (and I hope you did) you probably sensed a bitter, on the edge individual who learned a hard lesson about humans and human nature. Sometimes a person needs a HUGE thump on the head to wake you up and get you out of the muck and mire of a stagnating, on-pause life.

I had hoped that after my last blog post I would wake up one morning with X-men/Jean Grey power to sort of speed up the process of healing but no dice. A long shot, I know. A woman can dream, can’t she? No, no, I had to let Time take over and do its’ thang.

Now, people, I gotta tell ya, Time is wonderful. Time gets a bum rap because people complain endlessly that they never have enough of it. However, Time can be your best-est pal if you let it. I decided to make Time my friend these past three weeks. I embraced it, I welcomed it into my home and I fed it. We played a couple of games of Spades, we sat on my back steps of my house and watched the fireflies in the evening and butterflies in the morning nestling in my honeysuckle (pictured left), we picked a couple of books for my summer reading together…even saw The Last Airbender (Time thought it was good, I was on the fence about the flick). As each day passed I trusted Time and its’ power to make all well. And Time sensed this and worked hard to help me get back to my normal, funky, quirky self. Of course I tried to rush Time periodically. I was in a hurry to get through it all and find myself again, and when I tried to rush thangs Time would whisper, “Not yet. You’re not ready.”

When the clouds of misery began to lift, Time didn’t hang out at my house as much. The thick, sticky molasses that had clogged my brain oozed out of my ears, my nose, my mouth and my brain cells began to function as they should. I decided to take up a new hobby (perfumery), the urge to find a good summer sale returned, laughing became easier and life didn’t seem so arduous any more. Who gets credit for all that? Time. I have peace of mind again, my curiosity has returned, my joy over all things beautiful has returned.

I’m taking steps to maintain this peace of mind, starting with what you see in the photo (right). So what? It’s a door. No, no, my friends, it’s not just a door. It’s the color of the door I wish to draw to your attention. You see, when I first eye-spied my house on the Internet the house had a red door and I was entranced. But when I saw the house in person the red was gone because the previous owner didn’t prime the door correctly and the paint began to peel so he stripped it before the sale. The real estate agent explained the meaning behind a red door, which harkened back to the Biblical story of the pharaoh of Egypt’s decree that all first-born sons of Hebrews be killed in retaliation for the 10 plagues of Egypt, the last one killing his first-born son. God promised that whosoever put lamb’s blood over their doorway (my goodness!  Where did that language come from?), evil would pass over (ya get it?  pass over=Passover, the Jewish holiday) their home and spare their first-borns. Hence the significance of a red door. 

Now, during the years of my ex-husband’s regime in the house it was a chore to get that door painted red. Everything I wanted for the house met resistance (because I knew absolutely nothing and he knew everything) so I learned to let the red door go and fight for the things I knew I had a slim shot at winning.  Yes, I could’ve painted the door myself, but you have to understand that any time I initiated a home makeover I risked a barrage of criticism from my ex-husband (“Look at the ceiling, you didn’t use paint tape,”  “Look at those bumps in the wall, you didn’t sand it down right”), as he wanted to maintain his superiority over such things even though I knew full well that if I put my mind to it I could do it.  So as Time was doing its’ thang, ya know, healing me and what not, an idea suddenly popped into my head to finally paint that damn door and spruce up the trim.  I’m not a terribly superstitious person, I have no problem stepping on sidewalk cracks and I don’t freak when the neighborhood’s stray black cat crosses the street before I’ve had a chance to hit it.  But I do believe in negative energy, the type that can inhibit you, and if there is a way to dissipate that negative energy I will do it.  Enter: the red door.

I gotta tell you, I love it.  When I turn onto my street it pops out at me and when I enter my driveway, I revel in its’ glory for a little bit before I pull all the way in.  Little ole’ me did that, is what I think each time I look at it, and from a distance you can’t even see the difficulty I had with the stupid peephole I don’t use because I need a stepladder to look through it.  That door screams, “Evil, don’t you come around here no more, Jack!”  I think that red door does more than any Jean Grey powers could.

So, Time, I hold up my glass to you.  With you I was able to see a light at the end of an abysmal tunnel, paint a damn door a delicious shade of red, and…oh, yeah, get on with the business of living.  Gan bie!  Salud!  A votre sante!  Cheers!

All my love,

The Tasmanian Devil

 

Facing The Ultimate Test

Image from Marvel Comics (www.marvel.com)

I haven’t been feeling very ducky lately, dear readers. Events of late makes me glad I can’t easily open my rickety garage door to access my shiny new axe I bought to tame the jungle in my backyard. Otherwise I’d be running around the neighborhood with no bra screaming like Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” (heeeeere’s LISA!).

I’m ashamed to say that an incident I encountered pushed me to an explosion of epidemic proportions. I won’t go into details (I’ll save it for my memoir…when I decide to write it…BUY THE BOOK!) but I will say the boiling point was an ugly affair…preceeded by a rude awakening to what human beings, when cornered like rats in a landfill of lies and deceit piled a mile high, are capable of.

My explosion was a long time a’comin’, people, but I figured my mortgage company would get the brunt of it, or my car finance company…hell, even my kids. Yet oddly enough the aforementioned were spared my wrath. The fuse for this explosion was lit in 2004, the year I took on a husband, a house and a dog (no, the dog had nothing to do with it) and it was slow burning. At times it fizzled out a little, almost went out completely, but all it needed was a little spark and it would start back up again.

Mind you, I could’ve thrown water on that fuse at any time. Could’ve tamped it out with my foot. Oh no, not me, I’m too masochistic for that nonsense. I let it burn, burn, burn (shout out to Usher). I IGNORED the signs, DISREGARDED my intuition and allowed myself to believe and trust in the “honest” intentions expressed to me with a quivering voice, moist eyes, sweet words and meaningless gifts used to lull me into a false security.

I know the suspense is killing you right now. “What the hell is this chick trying to say?” you might be asking yourself, “Why is she being deliberately obtuse? What happened for Christ’s sake? Dish it, girl!” I could name names, give dates and times, tell you exactly how it went down…yet to do that would give power to those who, through their ill actions, facilitated the explosion, the moment I became someone I didn’t recognize. But I will say the situation almost landed me on the WE TV program “Women Behind Bars.” Got it? Good.

However, I want to draw your attention to the word “almost.” I didn’t go there, dear readers. Had I brought my trusty axe to split someone’s wig I could’ve put Lizzie Borden to shame that fateful night, that’s how much I was consumed by anger, frustration and hurt when I stumbled upon what I had suspected all along. What I wouldn’t give to have X-Men powers, like Jean Grey’s (as pictured above). Just freeze the moment so I could get a breather to scream my head off as a release, and then unfreeze and coolly walk away like Samuel L. Jackson. You know? Do the pimp stroll like I’m too cool for school and leave ‘em guessing.

Two very valuable lessons, no, I’ll say three, came out of this ordeal:

1) NEVER ignore your intuition. If it barks, pees, shits, ruts and smells like a dog, then it’s a dog.

2) NEVER allow someone to rob you of your dignity by losing your cool. You give that person power they truly don’t deserve. Do the pimp stroll and quote The Lady Chablis in Midnight In The Garden of Good and Evil as you walk on by: two tears in a bucket, mothahf**k it.

3) Realize that even though Eve cursed us women with the cycle, she also blessed us with inner strength to endure all. The best revenge a woman can have is to do better than those who have aggrieved you. It shows how much of a survivor you really are.

I’m still learning, dear readers. I ain’t got this thing called life on lock down just yet. If reincarnation does exists, I’ll be back no doubt. Wouldn’t it be ironic if I came back as a man?

All my love,
The Tasmanian Devil

 

A Letter to Me

 

Every once in a while I get curious about files on my laptop.  I’m never smart enough to name my files in a way that’ll allow me to identify the contents straight off if months go by.  So when I saw a file labeled Letter to Me I thought, “What the hell is this?”   I opened the file and immediately went, “Ahh, now I remember.” 

The following letter was written as part of an exercise at a teaching workshop at Asnuntuck Community College right before I taught my first college course.  I do my best writing when it’s from the heart because it’s fueled by my passion.  I scoff when I hear people advise writing every day in a journal; I say, “pshaw.”  If you read past entries of this blog you can easily spot when I’m writing from the heart or if I’m just pulling something out of my ass.  When I write from the heart, my words will make you tear or laugh or think.  When I write from the ass, your reaction will be a shrug of the shoulders.  I’m a quality, not a quantity writer.  When I’m feelin’ real froggy I compare myself to Harper Lee; she wrote quality, one masterpiece that contributed to the annals of American Literature.

I hope the below letter will make you feel…something!  And I challenge you to write a heart-felt letter to yourself, especially if you’re about to embark on the unknown and you’re filled with fears and doubts.  And six months down the road, when you need a pick-me-up, break out the laptop and look for this letter.  Do what I say, ya hear me? 

Photo from www.wrensoft.com

Dear Lisa, 

How exciting is it for you to be teaching your first class?  You thought about this for a while, you contemplated this teaching thing since you started undergrad, but you never really believed it could happen.  Perhaps it was destiny that you got that job at Eastern Connecticut State University.  Regardless of your personal feelings on why you were hired to work for Dr. P*****, the end result is that you were granted the rare pleasure to work for a man who was passionate about student learning and in a roundabout way he passed that passion onto you because he inherently knew you would know what to do with it.  

Perhaps you are fulfilling what your father was never able to do because life was hard for him and he had everything working against him: a stroke, alcoholism, mental illness, an early and tragic death.  But you aren’t teaching to fulfill what he wasn’t able to do, you are teaching because it’s a part of who you are.  Your personality, your encyclopedic knowledge of useful and useless facts from years of watching biographies on A&E Television, your need to help people even if at times you don’t believe in them, those things are what make you Lisa and to deny them is futile.  To succumb to the very essence of Lisa is and will be a marvelous thing, not only because it will make you happy but also because you will be able to spread your wisdom, knowledge and passion to those who need to believe in themselves.  No doubt you will be nervous.  Like the day you first got on the mic at Eastern’s WECS FM for your Friday radio show and your voice trembled with every word you spoke.  But with each radio show you got more confident, more sure of yourself and little did you know you slowly gained a following.  Remember the little note you got in a used book you bought from a dealer in Columbia?  When at times you thought no one was listening, when you thought that no one really “got you,” you received that wonderful note that said he listened to your program every Friday as he wrapped books.  He recognized your name when you ordered that book from him, recognized the fact that it must be the same Lisa Overton who gabbed on the airways about living in East Hartford on WECS FM and he took the time to write that little thank you.  How cool was that, Lisa?  Do you remember the smile that spread across your face after the surprise wore off?  Do you remember the little laugh that followed and the warm, gooey feeling that came from someone showing their appreciation for what you do? 

Eventually the same thing will happen for you in teaching.  Appreciation will not come right away, don’t forget that.  But you will gain a following, I’m sure of it.  Why?  Because you will love it just as much as you loved doing that radio show.  Your passion for all things will flow as you stand in front of a group of people looking to you for knowledge, insight and guidance.  Your doubts about whether you will be successful are justified, as nothing is ever certain in life.  But you will grow, you will adapt, you will find “your way,” one that will work best for you and you will be awesome.  Remember, you are a Scorpio, a water sign, and your life thus far has been a demonstration of the characteristics of that sign: fluid, flexible, ever-flowing with the ability to accept change and to not let that change deter you from your ultimate destination. 

So remember, dear Lisa, to never lose that passion even during the most difficult of classes and the most challenging of students.  Remember to find interesting and creative ways to bring the word of gospel to your students.  Remember to be patient, as not all think as quick as you do.  Remember that these people are relying on you to guide them and to care about how well they must do not only in your class but in life.  Remember your humbled beginnings and the road you took to get to this point.  Remember the teachers that impacted you and the encouragement they gave that somehow stuck long enough for you to find the courage to be a writer. 

If you can’t remember all of that, remember this:  be who you are and you’ll do fine.    

 

The Ramblings of a Conflicted Mind

Well?  Wadda think about the new look of this blog?  When I logged into WordPress, I was smacked in the face by the blue-ness and I couldn’t resist.  I can’t explain why I always gravitate to the color blue…perhaps it’s the fact that I’m a water sign (Scorpio), yeah, that’s it.  It has absolutely nothing to do with my personality, do you hear me?  Nothing!

The summer is kicking off quite nicely I think.  During my tadpole’s stint in the big house (more on that later), I decided one day to unwind and the only place I could do that was at my favorite beach at Harkness State Park in Waterford, Connecticut.  When the boys were little I discovered this little gem tucked away on Long Island Sound and fell in love with the combination park/beach.  Sadly, the boys are now young men and don’t find the beach fun anymore so I ventured forth  by myself armed with my tunes, some Agatha Christie, bottled water, my colorful beach umbrella and my Canon Rebel XSi on the hottest day of the season thus far.   As you can see from these photos I thoroughly enjoyed the peace, browning myself like a roasted chicken as my iPhone tunes played on shuffle and I sailed easily through a series of Mr. Parker Pyne short stories by Dame Agatha.

I’d like to say I had deep, soul-searching thought while sand eased its’ way through every crack and crevasse of my body but I didn’t.  My mind kept whirring around all my current troubles, most recently my tadpole’s incarceration at Manson Youth Institute in Cheshire, Connecticut.  I felt guilty that I was on the beach with sand squishing between my toes while my son was locked in a cell on such a beautiful day.  More than likely, after getting home from school, he would be on the basketball court in one of many tank tees he has (I constantly correct him when he uses the term “wife beaters”) with his shorts hanging down his butt (a constant battle in our household) waiting for a turn to play.  I missed my tadpole but I didn’t miss the arguments, the constant battle for control, the worrying, the yelling…and let’s not forget the copious amount of tears shed.  It scared me how I had adjusted to talking to him through thick glass on a germ-ridden phone, sending him little post cards of encouragement and trying to keep his spirits up during visits.  For once I resented by water sign, my ability to flow with the current and accept the situation.  I was in constant contact with the mother of  a childhood friend of his from Colchester where we once lived, a woman who met my tadpole when he was pushy, fearless six-year-old, and her son was the only friend to write him while he was in jail.  I was and am extremely grateful to these two people because above all else they truly represent the words loyalty and friendship.  They could’ve turned their backs on my tadpole like so many of his other so-called friends did, but they remember the pushy six-year-old who simply introduced himself by announcing his name as he proceeded to sit in a Mickey Mouse chair by the front door,  who came over to play “diner” with a toy kitchen set, who came over on weekends to eat his weight in gold in sticky honey buns.  Like elephants they remembered and believed the boy in the jail was just that…a boy, not a criminal.

Oddly enough, my tadpole’s time away gave me an opportunity to connect with my older son the college student, a.k.a. Eeyore.  He got this nickname (which he despises) from a pediatrician who did spot-on Winnie the Pooh character impressions and discovered my son’s constant pessimistic attitude (it’ll rain today, it’ll rain tomorrow, it’ll rain next week).  Eeyore and I went on errands together, hung out at the mall (in separate locations of the mall of course) and had intelligent discussions about life.  These discussions included a re-hashing of The Boondocks episodes, which in the past I refused to watch due to its’  profuse use of the n-word.  He was able to give me a completely different prospective of this very adult show on Adult Swim  through Cartoon Network and his insight made me go, “hmmm….”  Our interactions over those 30 days resulted in a deep appreciation of his intelligence and gentle-giant demeanor.  It also made me realize that I wasn’t a complete failure as a parent if I was able to raise such a fine young man.

Getting back to the beach situation, my five hours of relaxation wasn’t a total loss.  Over the sand and surf, suntan lotion, ice-cold Atlantic ocean and sweat I managed to get some photos that reflect the pleasant time I had (see photo, left).   Like a fool I ran around snapping pics of this and that.  Oooo, look, some sea shells!  Oooo, look, big rocks!  Oooo, look, a little boy standing by sea shells throwing big rocks!  If you want to see more of these sea scapes you can visit my Farfalla Photography page on Facebook by clicking here or you can get a complete view on Artist Rising, a division of Art.com that allows artists to show and sell poster prints of their work by clicking here.

In my Who Are You and Where Have You Been post a while back I talked about stepping out of my comfort zone a little and exploring life.  I spoke of visiting Santa Fe but unfortunately Santa Fe will have to wait until I tackle this damn unemployment situation, which I’ll discuss in-depth in a future blog post.  However, in an effort to get me to write more (I fully admit my writing has languished considerably since I received my Master’s degree last year) I signed on to blog for This Week in Blackness, a blog started by Elon James White, a Brooklyn-based comedian and heavy Twitter user.  I’m planning to do my first post soon in which I’ll explore The Boondocks since it’s been on my mind so much lately.  I must warn you that subjects I’ll discuss on This Week in Blackness will be the polar opposite of the heart-tugging tripe I post here; more social commentary than anything else but peppered with my raunchy, Navy-influenced sense of humor.  If you are curious about my first blog post on the subject you can catch the link to that blog through my personal Facebook page by clicking here.  Speaking of Twitter, I’ve gotten swept up in this social media phenomenon and you can find me @scorpiowriter; I’ll tweet a link to that blog there as well.

What’s next on my agenda?  I have absolutely no idea.  I’ll go wherever the wind blows me and I hope it’ll blow me in a more steady, solid direction.

 

Cry Me A River

My life is a never-ending soap opera. I constantly beg the universe to cancel it, or at the very least give me the option of turning the channel, but no dice.

“We quite enjoy your misfortune,” says the universe, “It is quite entertaining. And since ‘Law and Order’ will be cancelled, you are a delightful alternative. The writers are doing an excellent job heaping pounds of drama upon you and the way you crumble each time yet rebound quickly engages us completely!”

My latest misfortune had to do with my little tadpole, a.k.a. my younger son (see blog entry “Let’s Talk About Sex“) who is in the picture above in the dark shirt. I don’t know what to do about my 16-year-old tadpole, to be honest. Every time I think he’s on the right path, he derails to disaster and it’s heartbreaking to watch because he has such potential. You see, my son is currently serving time in a youth correctional facility for violating his probation for an arrest the year before. Ever since the tragic Cheshire home evasion, Connecticut has been on edge and the judges doubly-so. Like most teenagers, he was smellin’ himself a bit too much and thought he could play Texas Hold ‘Em and cheat at my house rules, ‘cept he wasn’t holding all the right cards. The day I had to call the whistle and contact the court was the most difficult thing I ever had to do; I knew what troubles that phone call would bring. To be honest, I thought the judge would slap an ankle bracelet on him and that would be that. Imagine my shock when, after the judge voir-dired me about my son’s disobediance, he slapped a $25K bond and the marshals swarmed out of nowhere to handcuff him. Have you ever been in a situation in which everything happens so fast that your brain can’t connect with the actions taking place? I saw the handcuffs, saw my son being led out of the courtroom and I wanted to wiggle my nose like Samantha in “Bewitched” and pause the commotion so I could take a moment to process, take a moment to hug my son, take a moment to tell him…I love you.

Simply put, I was a wreck. The guilt of blowing the whistle was overwhelming. Like Atlas with the world on his shoulders, I carried that weight as I drove home, as I let the dogs out, as I tried to enjoy re-runs of “The Golden Girls.” Of course I unburdered myself to friends and family and everyone said the same thing, “you did what you had to do. You did the right thing.” Tough love and whatnot. But I wasn’t feelin’ so tough, especially when I went to his musty teenage bedroom, which he had cleaned the night before on my orders, and looked down at his bed imaging his big brown eyes looking up at me from his pillow. Nope, wasn’t feeling very cowgirl.

I hated the first visit. Pulling up to the facility and seeing all that barbed wire and fencing made my stomach flip. There were signs all over the place and I can sum them up in one word: don’t. Don’t come in if you have flu-like symptoms. Don’t come in if you’re inappropriately attired. Just…don’t. The CO on duty looked like she was burned out and hated dealing with the relatives of all these juvenile delinquents, yet oddly enough had her make-up (complete with false eyelashes) and hair did. I had missed the 6:45 visit, which meant I would have to wait 2 hours for the 8:00 visit, so I reluctantly settled in the visitors’ area since you aren’t allowed to sit in your car (another “don’t”). The long wait worked my nerves, the other visitors set me on edge and I was one step away from exploding. Ten minutes to the hour I had to practically strip naked to get through the metal detector (damn war wound!) before I was ushered into an area to wait for the second door to buzz me into another room where there was a series of boothes with large glass dividers and payphone-like receivers in the center of a large meeting area. My tadpole, wearing what looked like hospital scrubs in a tan color, chose the booth farthest away from everyone. He looked tired and sad and confused and scared…and as we talked I kept thinking, “He needs this. I didn’t put him in here, he did.”

When he said, “Mom, I’m really sorry” I didn’t respond. To be quite honest, I wasn’t sure if he was sorry for his disobediance or the fact he was in da joint. Normally I would get him to elaborate, but I was emotionally drained and still anxious. I wasn’t sure if he hated me for what I had done, but his apology alleviated my anxiety somewhat. I filled him in on what’s going on: the dogs stink, they need a bath; his brother got two job offers; his uncle wanted to strangle him for being stupid. By the end of the hour’s visit the tension had reduced to a simmer and we were able to smile at each other. The departure was difficult. You see, when he was in baby jail (juvenile detention) I could hug and kiss him good-bye. In this place all I could do was hold my hand up to the glass.

Subsequent visits have been better. The unknown has disappeared, replaced by complacency. I know to ask for a locker key for my things as soon as I arrive. I’m beginning to remember his inmate number. I know what time to show for a visit. I write to him twice a week on quirky post cards I hope will make him smile. I send money to the inmate trust fund so he can buy raman noodles at the prison commissary he can make in his cell. I give him updates on “Boondocks” and we act out episodes, the laughter making the glass that separates us nonexistent.

Am I mad at that judge? No, he did his job just like I did mine. For all I know this may save my son. I hope I get my tadpole back, the tadpole I danced on my lap as a baby, the tadpole that likes to make snowmen and have snowball fights. And when he does mature into a frog, I pray, after this experience, that he looks before he leaps.