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

 

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

 

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.

 

Who are you and where have you been?

Good gravy!  I can’t believe so much time has passed since my last entry.  It’s not as though I didn’t have a idea or two to write about; believe me, today’s news give me fodder for great posts.  If we’re not hearing about Tiger’s “mistresses” (a nice way of saying sleazy broads), we have to hear about Jesse James self-proclaimed sex addiction and his hidden Nazi tendencies.  Yeesh!  Sandra, honey, just keep on moving on and wash that man out of your hair.  You did your best, he didn’t realize what he had, show you have class and cut him off at the kneecaps with your divorce lawyer.  In any event, this posts won’t address the scandals of late.  I’m gonna be selfish and talk about me, me, me!

For those who are new to this blog and haven’t read my earlier posts, I was laid off October of last year and have been supporting myself by teaching part-time at Asnuntuck Community College.  Even though I’m maintaining productivity by working part-time, I still feel…I dunno…useless, adrift, too damn idle to suit my tastes.  Understand that I’ve been working full-time since the age of 19 when I joined the Navy and upon discharge, have held a variety of jobs to support me and my boys.  I’ve always had a job to gripe about, feel trapped by, feel miserable over.  Never thought I’d reach a point in which I would miss having a place to go to for 9 hours at a stretch.

Okay, so even though everyone keeps telling me there is a reason I’m unemployed, I gotta be honest I have yet to see it.  I’m thinking: what opportunities should I pursue?  Should I make a leap of faith and open that photography studio I’ve always wanted?  Should I pursue writing full tilt and put my Master’s degree to good use?  Should I start that publishing company I’ve been putting on the back burner?  Or should I find ways to prostitute myself for a photographer position with National Geographic and take off to strange and unusual places at a moment’s notice?  Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that if you dream it, you can do it, but let’s be realistic, people.  It takes funds to start a business, I have to know someone who knows someone at National Geographic…do you see where I’m going?  Reality has to set in somewhere and I’m not in a position to live out of my car to pursue any of these hopes, dreams, and desires.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m an extremely passionate individual and persistent as all hell, but there are times when you have to think with your head and not your heart.  I thought about going back to college, but I’m like…Jesus Christ!  More school?  Isn’t a Master’s degree enough for God’s sake?  I recently went to a local community agency for assistance with my mortgage and the counselor suggested getting on a retraining program.  Really?  Seriously?  I suffered three years of graduate school and I should go get retrained?  Oooo, maybe I should go for that Ph.D. and be even more useless.  An academic I once worked with translated the acronyms of degrees: B.S. (bullshit), M.S. (more shit) and Ph.D. (piled high and deep).  I’m afraid to find out how the acronym M.F.A. translates, but since I haven’t been able to find a job right away, I pretty much know what M.F.A. stands for (use your imagination).  I need another degree like I need another M.F. hole in my head.

Do I sound a little defeated right now?  Yes, I raise my hand and admit to that glimmer of defeatist attitude that has crept into my soul and stole the thunder of passion that usually drives my relentless persistence.  Some time ago I read an article in The New York Times from a laid-off editor who wrote about her experiences of the aftermath of being laid off and I was so grateful that I wasn’t the only one to feel useless.  However, at the end of her article, she wrote that she was using this time to enjoy her life, or more specifically to enjoy living and explore things she didn’t have the time to do before.

I have absolutely no doubt I will find something that will fulfill this idleness within me, but in the meantime, just like the laid off editor, I need to explore and step outside my comfort zone.  It took me years to discover my style as a writer, now it’s time to explore my style as a photographer. 

It’s not like I want to master the medium.  I want to focus on the art of photography beyond trying to make a living from it.  I took the photo to the right two weekends ago at an afternoon tea and when I bent to shoot it, I didn’t know if what I saw in my mind’s eye, the Third Eye, would translate on “film.”  It did.  And once I took it a step further in Photoshop Elements…hot diggity dog!  So this spring and summer will be used to discover my Third Eye in photography.  I’m hoping I’ll make it to the Santa Fe Photographic Workshop this summer, connect with the culture and nature down there and finally fulfill my dream of visiting the art capital of the world.

See?  I haven’t given up on my dreams.  I’ve just shifted them to something more obtainable.  All those other dreams?  They’ll just have to wait.  It’s not like they have some place to go, right?

 

Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby! The Night My Little Tadpole Stopped Being Little

Seventeen years ago I gave birth to a tadpole (see tadpole photo to the left). No, not literally a tadpole, that’s the nickname I gave my younger son. He was all arms and legs and hair, with big, bright eyes and strong as an ox. I predicted he would be tall and those bright eyes would be his best feature. I was right on both accounts, but I failed to predict the day when my little tadpole would come to me for a candid discussion about sex.

The tadpole is now a frog and wants to play intimate leap frog games.

It was a miracle this discussion even occurred, honest injun’. My tadpole has said repeatedly in the past that he didn’t feel comfortable talking about THOSE type of things with me. I’m like…dude, your dad ain’t around so get over it. Yet, my tadpole was reluctant to share. However, I did manage to occasionally slip in some pearls of wisdom against his will such as, “I’m not ready to be a grandma, so if you need condoms, ask!” and “watch these little girls out here because they’re liable to give you something you can’t get rid of!” and “don’t ever go into a girl’s house when her parents ain’t home, you’re begging for trouble!” Yes, of course we’ve had the birds and bees talk, my ex-husband did that at my coaching when my son turned eleven. Explaining how body parts fit and that if sperm reaches egg a baby results is only half of what young adults should know.

It’s a scary world today, people. I know I’m showing my age but I didn’t have to worry about AIDS during high school because only adults got that. The only pregnant teenager I knew had married her boyfriend before she got knocked up. Bisexuality? What’s that? Perhaps it sounds as though I led a sheltered life but that’s the world I lived in growing up. Now teens can get AIDS, schools have LGBT clubs, sex is a sport for the “friends with benefits” crowd and oral sex, not kissing, is a closet game.

So when my son came to me one night and made a confession that he and his girlfriend wanted to “get busy,” inwardly I cringed. I’m no prude to teen sex, would be totally naive to think this day would never come since I met “da wifey” (the pet name for his girlfriend), but I’m looking at my little tadpole and I thinking, “my tadpole’s a horny toad!” Now, keep in mind my son is not a virgin; this ain’t his first go-a-round at the ole sex rodeo. I had to be grateful for small favors, though, that he came to talk to me about it rather than going ahead and doing what he wanted. For fear of scaring him off from coming to me in the future, I eased into the conversation with a “why do you two want to have sex?” and then from there asked about birth control, brought up worst case scenarios, gave him a brief overview of my missteps in the sexual arena as an impetuous youth…all in all played devil’s advocate. I didn’t give my consent, nor did I say no, for God sake, don’t do it. I basically gave him some things to chew on and hoped, neigh, PRAYED my words hit their target.

Is the battle to keep my son out of some girl’s bed before he’s achieved his goals over? Not by a long shot. The battle is ongoing and will be long-fought; the exposure to sex for today’s youth is growing more and more outrageous. My homeboy from high school, who is a parent of the same mind, hipped me to the “rainbow game” and no, it’s nothing remotely similar to Shoots and Ladders. Apparently, a boy child goes into a dark closet and various girl children with different shades of lip gloss enter the closet to give this boy child oral sex, thus creating a “rainbow” of lip gloss on his member. Are you horrified? I sure as hell was and that’s when I knew I had crossed over from a cool young chick to some old broad that runs around saying, “when I was a young girl, we didn’t…” And with the swift advances in telecommunications, us parents have to deal with “sexting” (have phone sex through texting), sending x-rated material of a whole host of sexual acts through cell phones in photograph AND video form…stuff I never knew about until I got OUT of the Navy.

What’s the solution, people? Lock our children in the basement with bread and water until they turn 18? Ask Steve Jobs to devise a unique chastity belt with a computerized time lock ? Get a license to carry a shotgun in states that require it? No, I say! If you don’t have a teenager in your household let me tell you, the more you push the more they oppose. My house is a friggin’ physics lesson in what happens when oppositional forces collide. I can honestly say I don’t have a bonafide solution to this problem, only tell you to confront your children about what they know about sex. Be bold, be brazen. Set aside how you were raised and come to the realization that you can’t be shy about this stuff because if your children don’t get this information from you (a reliable source), they’ll go to their friends (an unreliable source). It’s fine that they learn the mechanics of sex but that’s simply not enough these days. Tell them of your experiences, tell them how you wish you did things differently, tell them there are other ways to express feelings of love.

Let me be clear I am NOT preaching abstinence and I triple-dog dare you to say I am. What I’m saying is to teach your children about relationships, how sex changes things, how one false move can change your life and all your goals will be a dream deferred when a baby comes in the mix before your mature enough to handle it. Maybe they’ll listen to you, maybe they won’t, but consider the fact that regardless, you’re arming your child with important knowledge. You’re setting the stage for open sex communication, and in doing so you’re passing the torch of such communication to your children for them to use with their children and down through the generations.

 

So much to write about, so little time

Believe it or not, I had every intention of posting this on Monday, my scheduled time for posting.  I even had a juicy topic to pontificate on and planned visuals and everything.  It wasn’t a topic that pissed me off, however, so I wondered how much energy I could put behind it.  If you must know, I was going to skewer People Magazine on their features of actresses who confess their fatness (Valerie Bertinelli, Kirstie Alley and most recently, Melissa Joan Hart) and how they reformed their wicked eating ways.  Alley irked me the most, with her “let’s face it, I’m fat, fat, fat!” whining.  Alley, did you not realize the consequences of sitting on your ass all day and slathering pounds of butter on everything that entered your mouth?  I’m not the most savvy of individuals when it comes to nutrition, but damn, even I know butter+butter+butter=mountains of fat. 

Both her and Oprah (another “I’m fat” whiner) have the money and resources to NOT be fat.  If I had one-tenth of Oprah’s money, I’d have a cute trainer (a Djimon Hounsou-type), a cute cook (a Chiwetel Ejiofor-type, British accent and all) and a cute nutritionist (a Brad Pitt-type) to keep me on track 24-7.  Their uniform: a tight tank tee and spandex biking shorts.   But I said I wasn’t going to prattle on about this topic, didn’t I?  Okay…moving on.

Nope, for this post, I’m going to get a little touchy-feely.  Just a little.  This summer I was hired to teach my first English composition class at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, CT.  I was nervous, but I realized I had the same level of nervousness for the first class I taught (creative writing) and everything turned out fine.   Though I knew this class was coming up, I just couldn’t generate the confidence and energy I had for my first class.  Maybe because my first class was 14 weeks, giving me ample opportunity to know my students and for them to know me.  This class was only 6 weeks so how attached could I possibly get?

For their first assignment, I gave them an in-class essay.  The topic: themselves.  The purpose was to ascertain their level of writing skill so I would know how fast or slow I should go in the course, and to get an idea of the types of people I was dealing with.  I was pleased with the samples they submitted, but more importantly I got some insight into these wonderful people.  I’m happy to say I have a female marine biologist (yes! Hurray for STEM), an English lit major (yeah!), a computer science major originally from Russia, and one dear child who has failed English comp twice and just wanted to finish something so she can move forward in getting her Associate’s degree. 

By the second class, I had a better feel for them and by using my “Ask the Professor” Q&A period, they got to know me.  At the end of the class, one of my students, after reading my comments and grade on his paper, came to me and instead of arguing the grade, asked what he could’ve done better.  We sat for about 15 minutes or so going over his paper and I gave him a brief tutorial on the wonders of the semi-colon.  He shared his troubles of his current state of academic probation and how the dean of student affairs got him on track to improve his academics.  I’ll admit I was feeling a little warm and fuzzy after he and I departed in the parking lot that night.  By the time I read his second paper, I understood the drive behind his desire to do well. 

For their second paper, I asked my students to write about a topic based on their personal experience as a jumping off point for their research paper.  Again, I was given better insight into these group of people.  The student who had failed English comp twice submitted an excellent paper on billiards (she works part-time as a waitress in a billiard hall).  My female marine biologist student impressed the hell out of me with her paper on phytoplankton (which put SpongeBob Squarepants into better perspective for me).  However, my academic probation student’s paper had me in tears and not because it was badly written.  In his paper he described how he was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis and that the most he could expect to live would be up to age 37.

I guess what I’m trying to say in this post is that we all have the ability to touch a person’s life and to never underestimate the impact a simple touch may have.  By taking 15 minutes out of my life I was able to help a person who, in maybe 15 years, will no longer be on this earth.  As I move forward in teaching, no doubt I will encounter many other students whose life situations will touch me, yet this student’s life will forever stay in my mind.  Why?  Because I reached out to him without knowing his situation and was able to perhaps demonstrate the kindness we humans can possess at times without it being some sort of pity-party.  I think another reason he will stick out in my mind is because that night he reminded me why I chose teaching as a career.  So in the future, whenever my doubts, fears, phobias plague me, I will think back to the summer of 2009 when I taught my first Eng. Comp class and a warm night in June when 15 minutes of my life wasn’t wasted.

 

A shaky beginning

Dear Readers (or rather Dear Reader, I’m assuming I’ll be popular),

I must confess to a lack of fascination to this whole blogging thing.  Quite frankly, I don’t have the discipline to keep up with broadcasting my inane thoughts every day, much less every week.  But having recently graduated with a Master’s in professional writing, I thought, “Well, maybe now is the time to develop the discipline you failed to establish during those painful years of study.”  It’s also a great way to keep my lazy ass writing continually.

I guess blogging is the natural order of things now.  Millions of blog sites, for good or for evil, dominate the information superhighway.  So what do I have to add or offer to the cacophony of voices clammering for your attention?  Not a goddamn thing.  So I’m warning you now, don’t expect a lot from me.  That way you won’t be disappointed.

I guess, more than anything else, this blog will serve as an opportunity to develop material for my next book and a way for me to put all these random thoughts in my head in a more cohesive manner that can make sense to the everyday man (or woman).  I say next, as though my first book has been published, which it hasn’t, but hope springs eternal on that one.  More on that later.

Also, it’s another hit on my name on Google.  I know it’s silly to measure your success by the number of hits on an Internet search, but I’m a silly, shallow person at times.  My goal: to be not a rash but a full-blown eczema when you type in my name, hyphen and all.  Hopefully my name won’t be attached to some porn site.  Given the skanky men I’ve allowed into my life from time-to-time, my soon-to-be ex-husband included, I wouldn’t be surprised if a low-grade video pops up of my big ass filling up the video screen.

Speaking of names and hyphens, I do intend to drop the hyphen and the surname that follows when the State of Connecticut gives me my maiden name back.  Who knows?  To simplify my life, I just may go by “L.”  Let the courts and the Social Security Administration try to sort that out!  I might be booted off Facebook, though, if I do change my name to “L” so I may want to rethink that one.

I do intend to post my photography from time-to-time as well (see bar on the right for the photography page).  Let’s face it, blogging is a simpler form of prostituting oneself and services that can be provided.  I won’t charge you for viewing though, this ain’t no peep show.

Okay, so this is how it will go: I’ll go about my life, which includes going to work, yelling at my teenage sons and two dogs and watching marathons of “The Golden Girls,” and as stuff I come across piss me off or make me laugh, I’ll share it with you.  Of course I’ll also pass along some wisdom, knowledge, and keep you abreast of certain things I think should be paid attention to.  I’ll do my best to make you laugh, or at the very least make you shake your head in wonder.  I don’t do politics (I’m a closet liberal) and I won’t slap you in the face with social issues (I don’t do sermons).  I’ll just put the information out there, give you my thoughts on the subject and let you do the rest.  In return, I hope you will visit this blog early and often.

Let’s get this party started, right?  Off we go, enjoy the ride, baby!