You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Rambling’ category.
I’m a writer or something like that.
I will regain my status as a tap dancer soon.
I had a boy, lost a boy, got another boy. Loss pending.
I adopted a dog, adopted another one, and adopted another one (the last of which was in part due to my fondness of odd numbers, 3s in particular.
I was born. Death pending.
I got a degree, got another one, and am working toward the end of the third one.
I have a momma and a dad and a granny and a grandma and a brother and a sister in law, 9 aunts and uncles, and approximately 17 first cousins.
I have a doggie gate that I don’t understand how to install. I have no knowledge of an Allen wrench.
I’m cursed/blessed with tragedy.
That blamed bicycle stole my virginity when I was but a girl. Ouch.
I encourage people to save the world.
I have a history of passing out. For this reason, I should not give blood but still have the urge to because I could save your life, dear reader, because I have O-neg blood. I would gladly pass out to save your life. I might vomit a little when Bryan comes to pick me up from saving your life but it’s okay, only a little will get in his air vents.
I have kneecaps and calves of steel, though I might have just cracked my kneecap just now.
I love to read. Some favorites are the Year of Magical Thinking (Joan Didion), Young Men and Fire (Norman MacLean), Into Thin Air (Jon Krakauer), I Know This Much Is True (Wally Lamb), October Light (John Gardner), As I Lay Dying (William Faulkner), Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt), Devil’s Knot (Mara Leveritt), East of Eden (John Steinbeck), and my current read, the Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down (Anne Fadiman).
In Lady Antebellum’s “Need You Now,” one of the lyrics goes, “oh I’d rather feel something than nothing at all.” Well, then. Clearly, they’ve never felt the peace of feeling nothing at all because although not a pleasant experience, if you can get that numb, it’s something that one really would prefer at times, especially during breakups.
They need to get a little dead inside.
Nails down to the quick
I’ve made them weak
with my neglect
I should have listened to the wives’ tales
I’m without talon to pick or perch
and it will take more time than I’ve got
to make them right again
Seriously, what has been up with my sporadic blogging. I’ve been writing but it doesn’t strike me as something I want to put on my blog. I’m working on a series of essays about different aspects of my family.
I have been going out with a much younger man, solidifying my cougar status. It’s been really fun, no pressure. And he’s tall. And I like his laugh.
I do have news. I’m a mother again. On Sunday, I adopted another dog, a beagle mix named Mindy IV who I’ve renamed Emmie (Val, your vote counted). I did adopt her in a manic phase and am now a little shell-shocked. She’s about a year old. I’m going to just say she’s one. She looks like a simple spotted dog mix with a beagle head attached. Beautiful eyes. Bryan loves her. I like her. I mean, she’s got so much energy and she seems alien and I can sense no emotion in her so I’m adjusting.
On Monday, happenstance occurred. Happenstance, I say, because I’m not sure I believe in fate or destiny, puzzle pieces fitting together just so. I see a yellow sticky note on my office floor. I leave it there for several hours. I have things to do. In the mid-afternoon, I pick up the note and take a look-see. I’m jolted to see it. His email, the asshole, who ruined the name Steve for me, although I never liked it anyway. The one with no affection for me. His email, who I’d finally forgotten. His email, written down a year and a half ago just in case we ever started communicating again, still waiting to be typed in my compose box.
He’s not much to me, not even painful to think about. He’s nothing. He’s an asshole. He is Steve.
He facebooked me a few months ago and I told him to never contact me again.
I’m not sure why I can’t bring myself to throw the sticky note away.
All about me.
In one word describe how you currently see yourself:
One prominent nickname you were given:
ML or in my other life, Lo
One strange fact about yourself:
I hate constrictions of having to come up with one response when I mostly have several responses to questions, some of which are mutually exclusive.
One bad habit?
Not washing my hair often enough
One thing you can’t tolerate?
Wordpress monster avatars that appear as my picture on some blogs. It says it saves the new avatar but then the monster shows up. And the monster looks like he’s smiling. Like he’s a happy monster. Ugh. See Bindo’s site for my monster-faced comment.
What that sickens you?
Tidiness, rinsing with salt water
One thing you can’t forgive?
Bryan, for telling me there’s no hurry to complete his contest and then calling me every 5 seconds to see if I have selected a winner.
You have difficulties with…?
grocery shopping and bullets found in my door
What turns you on in a man physically?
Tall, hair on head, brain optional
What turns you on in a woman physically?
What is a turn off for you in a man physically?
A small oh-my. Short and/or without hair.
What is a turn off for you in a woman physically?
Have you seen the white light at the end of the tunnel?
I try to block it out with my sleeping mask.
One drink you’re never touching again?
Pledge-flavored herbal tea
How many countries have you visited?
A lowly 2 countries.
How many countries still on the list?
All of them, although I might wait a minute before heading over to Somalia or Afghanistan
One word to describe you a random friend.
One word to describe your partner.
One word to describe your latest ex.
One word do describe your soul mate.
One word to describe your nemesis.
Your future in one word
You’re stranded on an island… One thing you’d want…?
One word to describe this tag
One thing you would like to say to the person on your mind right now
A good date is always a bad date for a writer. I get a rush of delight when I realize things have gone horribly awry and I’m stuck in a situation that I will be forced to endure for another 53 minutes. It’s sweet, the taste of the meat of him, the reassuring thought that I own this story now. I can twist and spin and create a reality of terror and delight for myself and, hopefully, my readers.
I had a date yesterday. It was very awkward until we started making out. He had squinty eyes and was a bad kisser. He wore a pimp ring on his finger. I admit to liking it.
I met him at the Waffle House, which was even cooler than saying
I met him on the internet
He was cute
though for a moment as I was walking up
I wasn’t sure
He had stunning blue eyes
usually I go for brown
but he was all smiles and there was little awkwardness
I think I’d finally found my stride
not thinking twice about the fact I remembered nothing from his profile
He wore a sports jacket while I wore a slinky top
encouraging him to check out my rack—he did several times
I felt a rush of adrenaline
He kept smiling
- He says he needs soup and a good woman to take care of him. Aw.
- He says raw emotion is lame. Double aw.
- Sweet is good, he says.
- Sarcastic is good, he says.
- He shrugs his shoulders when called Pookie.
- He says we walk into his jokes like a blind man walking into an invisible tree, which makes us laugh but try not to analyze it too much because it gets confused.
- He’s not Hitler.
- He just needs to reflect a little.
- He’s willing to soul search. Awwwwwwww!
- He’s selling us in the most fun way, we adore his technique.
- He is diligently trying to decide whether to drive his truck or his car to meet us next week. He asked what our preference was.
- He’s in the motherfucking AIR FORCE!
This whole time, I was thinking I had only recently licked my wounds from the ex of 2008. Then I remembered that last November I was developing a solid relationship with a guy who would 3 months later leave to go to Japan for a couple of years (aka the guy who left the country without telling me; I technically knew he was leaving but fuck him, he’s my story to tell now). Remember that? What fun. I called this man an asshole and he was but I still like to talk to him sometimes. I mean, he has that funny Wisconsin accent. Then the guy with the facial tic. Then that guy who diagnosed my knee problem, which would have gotten him a second date (I’m a hypochondriac) except he used “golly gee” and “holy smokes” during the conversation and I couldn’t live with that. No one could. Then there was the one I liked but it didn’t work out. Rapid fire dating. Airforce John. Oh, and remember the one who shaved his arms and had the smoothest arm skin I’ve ever seen. I’m sorry, but he was too short. 5’8 is too short for me and I know this but then I tell myself, “well maybe…” and then I remember that the height specifications I’ve set are important as soon as I meet the guy…I swear I feel as though we’re eye to eye even though he’s 9 inches above me. Aside from Gary Stubble of yesteryear, I’ve never been attracted to a short guy.
They fade quickly into mythology, don’t they?
There might be another shot at an Air Force man (too soon to tell). Mainly, it’s slow-going because I am so over putting out effort at the moment (as such, I’m ruminating over all of my lost loves, most of whom I didn’t mind losing). Ebb and flow, friends.