Words About Ideas About What's Next

There is this writing experiment I am doing.


It is actually causing some major evaluating of my life.

All Mary's are wise and profound..it's axiomatic!

I can't help but notice that I am having more ideas - a project I have been hacking away at for years is now swimming right along.

It feels good.  To find paths where there were none.  To find words and ways where there was only self-doubt and roadblocks.

Also, I have started noticing things.  Little things, but they have made me sit up and take notice and review where I am and what I am doing with my time.

I work.  I have a job.  It is neither career nor calling, though I honestly felt I was going to do some good when I started it a year ago. 

I don't feel that way anymore, and I would desperately love to be doing something that makes a difference in this world.

Punching a clock, logging 40, dotting the 'i's' and crossing the 't's', or vice versa, is not enough.

Not by a long shot.

Every day, after reading as many blog posts as I have time for, I fall asleep thinking about what I really want to do with the rest of my life.  I can tell you right now, that what I am currently doing is not it.


I read all these tales on #500WordsADay and they make me want to do more...to be more, actually. 

Such as:

I have always wanted to do yoga; always.  I went to yoga, like, 5 times with my sister, and I hated it.  Well, actually, I liked some of it, but because I was friends with the yoga instructor's husband on FB, I was aware that she was a violent, crazy, chaotic person....and I couldn't relax in her studio--not a bit.

Also, I have bad wrists and a tendency to fall down.....so that didn't help in my yoga practice either.

I definitely want to be doing something that benefits other people, and not just The Man.  I feel unbelievably shallow right now, and I hope I don't sound like some vapid beauty contestant, but I really want to work with either the elderly or animals. 

Or maps.....I could do something about map awareness.

Uuuuuugggggggggghhhhh!!!  I want so badly to delete that. 

It sounds super shallow right?  I actually mean it.  I think about the elderly a lot.  I wonder what they think when they go to a restaurant and see a family not interacting, but all tied up with some device.  I wonder what they think of global warming and gun violence and reality TV.  Seriously.

I need to take a writing class because I wrote a screenplay and this agent actually cared enough to write back and tell me that I didn't have a good feel for dialogue. 

Which is interesting  given that I have more conversations than anyone.

Anyway, I am super restless.....we'll see where this goes.

Good Enough

I am doing a 30 day writing experiment....


As part of the deal, I read all these posts by these amazing bloggers, get crazy inspired, and then I log into my own blog and I just....BLAH!

These bloggers are out living life, being yoga instructors, and in Kurt's case, eviscerating themselves daily, in the name of art.

Meanwhile, I am over in the corner, fooling around with font colors and posting pictures of Ryan Gosling.  I feel like I showed up in the Hamptons driving a 1993 Ford Escort, while wearing something from Jaclyn Smith for Kmart Collection to Donatella's annual bash....

Just.
Not.
Good Enough.

In my 20s, I was obsessed with Sarah McLachlan.

I played her CD all the time in my car, in my house, on any jukebox that had it.

And my favorite song was "Good Enough".

That song spoke (speaks) to me.

Am I Good Enough?

No, says my inner critic.

Not good enough to have a real relationship with an adult.

Not good enough to have someone love me for me.  People love me for what I do for them (says inner critic).  And that is all.

Not good enough to get published.

Not good enough to get an agent.

Not good enough to.....well, everything.

That is the story I have been telling myself my whole fucking life.

YOU ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH.

So, when I log onto my Facebook, and  see all these magical writers and yoga instructors, and filmmakers and photographers posting some MAJORLY profound shit, while I am posting about being a fat, old, boring spinster--accompanied by #bluntcards and #RyanGosling pictures, I have to tell myself that I should just stop.

My shit is just not good enough, 

Who cares if I am single and still halfway in love with the only person who has ever dumped me and not returned?

Who cares that I am obsessed with Ryan  Gosling? 

Who cares if I hate technology and have not turned my cell phone on in 2 months?

Who cares if I read Beka's blog or Kate's blog or Joslyn's blog or Vanessa's blog and wish I was as deep and profound and fucking real as they are every single day??

No one.

No one cares.

And all the Ryan Gosling pictures in the world won't make me real.

Like the Velveteen Rabbit, the only thing that makes me real is loving myself.

And I don't do that so much...

But I am trying.  This experiment is making me write more--I have a short story collection that I am barreling through after every post.

So maybe, just maybe, this experiment is helping me become 'Good Enough'.

Or maybe that is another story I am telling myself.

If that ends up being the case, there is always wine. 

And that, my friends, is 'Good Enough' for me.

Keeping Score

So, yeeeaaahhhhhhh...

Last night I blogged about not having a boyfriend, and about how I may be seeking one in the near future.

Except I won't. 
Really, I won't try to get one.
Why?

I changed my mind!!  Every woman's prerogative, yanno!

Mostly, because I have been educated, simply by being a witness, but also by being a victim, of how "relationships" are about keeping score.

I grant you the magical love matches that MANY of my friends (KFM, TKS, NPJ) seem to pull off with no visible bloody skirmishes don't represent the drama I am referring to.  Those happen, but it is always within marriages that are lovely, magical, fairy-lands, where problems are opportunities for growth and deeper understanding.  Not signs of basic incompatibility.

"Relationships", in your 30s and 40s, outside of matrimonial bonds/chokeholds(joke!), seem to be about keeping score.  What did I do?  What did you do?  Did you show me you love me as much as I show you I love you?  Have you proved your love?

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE FOR ME, LATELY, EDDIE??



I am a rabid football fan--NFL, not HS, or college--so I get the beauty of comparison, contrast, and points...

Every Sunday, from August through January, I am the biggest score keeper EVER.

However, that doesn't seem applicable in the 'game' of 'love'.

Or, maybe it just doesn't seem right.

Should we be keeping score?

Or should we be grateful for what is given to us by partners as flawed as we are?


If you love someone, shouldn't you appreciate the times they step WAY outside their comfort zone to accommodate you?

If you love someone, shouldn't you see the progress and not ask for perfection?

If you love someone, shouldn't you be glad they are working on it and not expect them to do a complete 180 in 0-60??


I am, obviously asking these questions rhetorically, as I have only ever loved 2.5 people, and been completely unable to sustain any long-term relationships....

Maybe I am an idiot-victim of-Cosmo-Carrie-Bradshaw-sappy-chick-thought, but I really don't understand the whole "You-do-what-I-want-then-I-will-love-you" school of thought---shouldn't we want more than tit-for-tat in relationships??


Shouldn't we be kinda tit-for-that-awesome-back-massage?

Shouldn't we want the Golden Ticket, the Brass Ring, The Mother Effing Golden Snitch all rolled into one??

And, when we are lucky enough to get it, shouldn't we be just a tiny bit grateful??

Instead of asking someone to be our everything, shouldn't we ask them to be our something special and be glad when they do that??

Again, what the fuck do I know??  I am a tragic fucking spinster, pining over someone who probably doesn't know I still exist.

I will tell you this, though, I still think of him as the ultimate score, and I never once paid attention to who did what better in our relationship.

I never kept score.

I never will keep score.

Because if you are constantly keeping tabs on who is doing "love" better, you have already lost...


Score 0-0.....and that only place that 0-0  means love is on a tennis court...never anywhere else.

Never.



PS -

Couldn't resist!

Kidding!!

So, one of my super favorite humans on this planet is my friend, S, who I have known for 19 years.

Last night, we had a 90 minute catch-up-on-everything conversation.  I don't normally do phone conversations, but this one was a doozy.


I think some of you remember when I decided to try online dating.....


I didn't get past the 'decide', due to being freaked out by all the random and crazy screen names, and the plethora of names that involved '69', 'lil', 'baby', and 'shy'....

S, however, decided to do online dating (see the difference?  Yoda certainly does.....).

She posted some recent, truthful pictures, wrote a hilarious, painfully honest list of musts and must-nots, and let rip.  *Note; 'well-endowed' was one of her prereqs, and she said it worked out pretty nicely for her!*   She got about 400 responses the first weekend.

She went on dozens of dates, hooked up a few (hundred) times, and ended up in a relationship, which is one of the things she said she wasn't all that interested in. 

(Kidding about the number of hookups.  Barely. That was a joke as well.....but she did get some action, lucky bitch!)

This made me think a bit......I am constantly trying to evaluate whether I should have a boyfriend or not....

Pros:  

• Not the only person over 18 that is single when we do family things.
• Regular sex.
• Ummmm...........................

Cons:  

• Have to wax/thread/pluck/shave more often.
• Have to talk on the phone or answer texts, even if I don't want to.
• Have to compromise.  (I seem to remember that being an issue in my last relationship(s) going back forever)
•  Have to leave the house to do things in public more often than I would like.
•  Probably have to meet his friends and family, even if I just want to stay home and watch Alan Rickman movies.
• Regular sex. (kidding!)

I guess I would have to get in shape, too.  I mean, sure my FWB doesn't mind that I am a chunky monkey, but don't boyfriend's prefer flat abs?  I don't remember....

All I remember of my last relationship is how I literally, literally, could not stand one thing about him.  His face, his walk, his voice, his everything.....And every time I looked at him, wishing he would hit his head and get amnesia and never call/text/talk/visit/sleep with me again, I also had to look at myself and ask how I could be so stupid as to get into a relationship with such a moron---what did that make me?

Anyway, S and I decided that, in early May, she is going to choose a screen name for me, write me a stellar dating profile, upload some artfully airbrushed photos (kidding!), and find me a boyfriend.

Will it work?  Not sure?

Do I care if it doesn't?  Not sure.

I will probably get some amazing blog material, maybe get some amazing first dates (ha! as if!), and possibly some amazing..........never mind.

All I care about is that it's not 'LilShyGuyPDX69' barkin' up my tree; I'll be ok with whatever happens.

As long as he is well endowed.

Kidding!!

Little Blinky Lights

The PNW driver their mad skillz...etc

Pacific Northwest drivers suck.  They are literally the worst drivers ever.  Besides my mom. 

No, seriously.  She is, like, the WORST driver on the planet.  For reals.
Is YOUR nickname 'Leadfoot Lucy'??

PNW drivers, as a whole, are the woist.  If you tell them that, they will blame the' transplants':

'It's all those damn idiots from California!" They huff.  "They are wrecking everything"

Yeah....sorry about the tax dollars and the new business and the vehicles with better emissions quality than yours. 
(For reals, though, sorry about the sun-dried tomatoes.  No, seriously.  Whatever idiot decided all '90s cuisine needed sun-dried tomatoes was probably from CA, and for that I apologize.  Sincerely.)

I love the PNW.

There are only 2 places I would rather live--holla, Amalfi and the San Juan Ridge!-- and nowhere else I want to raise my child and watch my nieces and nephews grow up.

Having said that....you fuckers need to go back to driving school.

I lived in the South Bay at the beginning of the 'tech boom' in the mid-90s.  I had a 15 minute commute that took roughly 90 minutes during rush hour due to the masses of people getting on and off the freeways.  But, guess what?  I never got rear-ended, people merged by using the little stick by the steering wheel to make the little blinky lights come on so we all knew what their next move was, AND there were 3 (4 with the commuter lane) lanes with 3 distinct purposes on the freeways.

Again, I LOVE IT here, but seriously??  The far left lane is for passing and speeding.  The middle lane is for the speed limit (or 5 over, whatevs, I'm not THAT judgy), and the lane on the right is for getting on and off the roadway, and for Sunday drivers and for my dad.

If you use all 3 lanes for all of the above purposes, shit gets weird.  And, worse, if you fail to activate the little blinky light to navigate all 3 lanes in your attempt to arrive at the stop sign at the end of the off ramp 12 seconds before me, well......I hate you.  But, also, you are an idiot and highly unsafe.

Learn it. Love it. USE IT!

I managed corporate housing a long time ago, and people would fly into PDX from all over the country, get on I-84, and show up in my office to get keys.  If it was not every single one of them, then it was all but, like, 2 or 3, that came in and asked me, "Where did these people learn to drive?".  These people were from major cities across the country and would all profess shock, awe, and a healthy dose of fear at the "driving" they witnessed on their 10-400 minute drive to my building.

Never have I driven somewhere that I have to slam on my brakes at the end of the on-ramp (you know, the runway you are given to get up to speed with the flow of traffic??) because some PNW ding-dong is at a complete stop at the end, waiting for a gap in the 50 mph traffic so they can hop right on and head north.  Or maybe they were getting road head or eating Voodoo Donuts--who knows??  They certainly didn't have a turn signal on, letting me know their intentions....

Even I would go back to Driving School if this was the instructor!

Dreamy, Steamy, or Screamy?

So, I am doing this writing experiment for 30 days. #500WordsADay.

One of the comments on a post really got me thinking.  So much so, that I scrapped my planned post about plastic surgery and how Vanna White is, like, and alien or something because she has only aged about 5 minutes in the last 20 years without having so much plastic surgery she looks like a Muppet (ahem, Courteney Cox, Donatella, John Travolta). 

Seriously...she must bathe in Virgin blood.

The comment was about how random people (hello boy who went to Oak Tree for 3 months in the second grade!) pop into our dreams.  The second part of that comment was wondering how often we pop up in other people's dreams.....and that is pretty. dang. interesting.

I seriously have dreams about people from my past all of the time.  And not past boyfriends or anything like that (well, except for TC -- dream about that one roughly once a month and it's alternately fabulous and depressing), but about someone I sat next to in Freshman English at NU, or a coworker from 1994.  Totally random people who would probably not recognize me if I passed them on the street (mainly because of my eyebrows---I had very bad eyebrows from 1990-1996, seriously).


But now I have to wonder, do I ever pop up I random people's dreams?

Clearly, there are people who I would prefer were dreaming about me...ahem, you two.

But I also shudder to think of who might occasionally dream about me, and what exactly I might be doing in my dreams.....ew.  When I was 24, this dude offered to buy me breast implants if I would take a bath with him.  He was, like, 60.  Short, rotund, greasy, with oddly feminine, plump, little hands.  EW!!!  Double ew!  I wonder if he ever had a dream about me giving him a bath....triple ew!! (which, by the way never happened--I have never had fake boobs OR taken a bath with him or anyone over the age of 40.  pinkie swear)

Look, if any of you have been reading this blog for any length of time -- or since yesterday--- the issue of my promiscuity has come up a couple of times.  Well, I know what I am like in real life, and I can only assume Dream Mary is out there whorin' it up, giving obese, rich, old men baths and hand jobs to random cashiers and hobos........

Oh. Holy. Fuck.

I don't edit these things, guys, besides a rudimentary pass with the ol' spell-checker and some fun with font colors.  What I type is what you see which is what you get. 

So I am now stuck with the horrifying (whore-ifying?) mental image of every random dude that has propositioned me (lookin' at you, Bob, with your gold chains and ponytail, trying to make me drink a Viagra Martini--not a fancy blue concoction, ya'll...vodka martini with 2 Viagra dropped in the bottom--yikes!) having at least one dream where I give up the goodies.

So, yeah, this ended well.  I'm off to bed....to sleep perchance NOT dream!

I would sleep so much better if I had this.  How do I not have this yet?

Welcome To The Thunderdome.....Errr...ThunderThighs, Or What's Lunch Got To Do With It?

Body dysmorphia is a phrase that keeps getting tossed into my (ample) lap, ever since I started this blog.  I don't really think that's my problem, though.  I am not "distressed" about being round -- round IS a shape, yanno---not always.  Once or twice a day, maybe.  


I have never had plastic surgery to correct it, I have never been bulimic or anorexic, I don't even own a girdle or Spanx or those waist whittle-thingies.  Although.....in high school we had to "invent" something and present it in class, and my invention was a home liposuction kit.  So maybe a bit.....

Here is a picture of a chubby puppy.  Much cuter than chubby me.

I grew up in a family of skinny, angry women,  I was a happy, chubby cuddler.  My grandmother, who looked like a red-headed Jayne Mansfield, fit into my favorite shirt when she  came to visit the summer of my 12th year.  She just smiled and took it from me, and looked 100 times better in it than I did. 



My mother is 5'0 and 90 pounds.  My older sister was 5'7" and 100 pounds when I was 15 years old and muscly-stocky-chunky.  My family nickname was Bubblebutt.  And everyone called me that--always.  With love.  LOVE, I tell you!  (Love hurts, right?  Or at least that song says it does, I wouldn't know.)  This was years before JLo made the booty a coveted body part, so the nickname was neither cute nor fun to hear.  And I heard it a lot.








In my natural state, I look like a snowman,  Magically buoyant tits, squishy middle, and big thighs.

I have looked like that since I was about 12.  Minus the boobage, those didn't show up until after my 2nd child when I was too old and parental to make any good use of them.


When I got to high school, most of the people I made friends with were naturally skinny.  They also had naturally straight hair and could curl their bangs.....bitches.

I was athletic, though, so cheerleading and musical theater kept me sane during my high school years; sane but not skinny.  I was looking at a picture with my best friend, both of us in our miniscule pleated skirts, and my thighs were (and still are, lucky bitch!) twice the size of hers.




As an "adult", my weight has fluctuated between 4 and 10.  Those are sizes....sizes that are directly tied into my self-esteem.  And I don't really know how that is even a thing.





I realize, that at 40 flippin' years old, I should be more worried about my character
(flaky/procrastinator/promiscuous when I can be), but for some reason I obsess about my weight daily.




I wish the fitness fairy would come sprinkle me with some pixie dust and give me Kate Hudson's abs.


I tell myself that if I actually lose 30 pounds, I am going to look like Fat Bastard after his Subway diet.

Chubby or Flappy?  Decisions, decisions....

And no one wants a neck that looks like a vagina, right?


Pass the lasagna and the bread basket......

Commiserating or Co-Opting Misery?

 
 
For most of my life, I have been unable to grieve properly.
Any time there was a death; my grief was overshadowed by a couple of things.
 
 
1.  A family member has always cast herself as the lead actress in the three-act-drama of death that is arrangements-funeral-wake.  Instead of being allowed to 'peacefully' select coffins, flowers, food, venues, etc., we were constantly subjected to this person’s complaints that they were being 'ignored', more condolences were paid to others than them, they were grieving harder because...., etc., etc., etc.
The morning of the funerals were always fraught with this persons 'will-I-or-won't-I-go' drama. 
"My nerves can't take it'  
"I'm just too upset"
"No, no, you all go.  I will just stay here. Alone" 
 
I could go on and on about the recriminations if we left and forgot to call and check on this person "selfish", or if we DID call and disturb them "inconsiderate" in their grief,
 
 
2.   My 'cruise-director' personality (and, no, I would never willingly compare my personality to Julie McCoy--I have been called that both lovingly and contemptuously over the course of my life) does not permit me to let anyone at any event be a wallflower, not have a drink, or some food, or a comfortable seat, or be crying without fresh Kleenex.
 
So, yeah, most of my crying happens at night.  In the bathroom or under the duvet (depending on my singleton status), sniveling and honking my way through a half a box of Kleenex.
 
 
This past year, after losing so many family members, friends, and otherwise loved ones (that would be Cambo, who I never met, but loved anyway.), I have started to come out of it.  To be honest and open with my grief, and give people the opportunity to comfort me instead of shrugging it off with a chipper, "I'm fine!" (ok, maybe a little Julie McCoy. *sigh).

Oddly enough, a few things happened that made me wonder if the underside of the duvet is --in fact-- the only place I can grieve in peace. (I will be single forever, so no more bathroom bawling)

I have noticed that people seem to want to one-up my grief and relate to me an experience they had that was similar to, but so much more painful than, mine.  At first I thought they were commiserating....sort of like, "Yes, I have been there, I feel your pain."

Increasingly, especially on social media, it became clear that might have been the initial intent, but that their commiseration, turned into co-miseration....and that these people had appointed themselves co-host of my pity party, and wanted similar - if not greater - attention paid to their grief.

I don't know if it's me being overly sensitive due to my lifelong experiences with the party depicted in paragraph 2, or me being overly sensitive because I am not used to sharing my emotional distress so freely, but soloing on the sobbing seems to be the least competitive way to deal with my sadness.


Unless one of you wants to send me this.....
 

Everything You Never Wanted To Know About Me, Even Though You Didn't Ask

Here we go again.  After a 4-month hiatus from this fun little blog, I am back!  The goal is to write #500WordsaDay for 30 days. 




I am hoping I can stay the course; I blew it on the 10 day fiction challenge, mainly because I was in a very crazy place and would have probably written a bunch of stories about people losing their shit and getting stabby with their relatives--I was in a very stabby frame of mind then.

This was me.  All day, err day.

I have decided to kick this off by letting you know what you are in for when you read this blog.




I write bad words.  I don't use a lot of profanity in my day-to-day life, but I write a lot of bad words.  I write bad words on this blog, in my fiction, in my gratitude journal, and sometimes on post-Its when I am on the phone with idiots at work.




I am 40, but I don't feel like a grown up most of the time.  Sadly, I look much older than 40 which gets depressing occasionally, but I am dealing with that.  Not well.




I read too much.  Seriously, that's a thing.




I haven't had sex in so long that I am re-virginized.  That is also a thing.  In my head, anyway.




My fiendish little sprite of a daughter listed her 5 favorite people in the car on the way to school this morning, and I didn't rate.




I am in a constant neverending battle against grey hair and abdominal fat.  I have been losing for 9 years straight.




I have never made New Year's Resolutions in my life, but I did this year and I am doing ok.  Just ok.




I have very oily skin.  I recently started wearing a ton of makeup (don't ask), but by 3:00, it has all slid off my face and I am back to looking like an effeminate dude.




I can't stop myself from reading the comments at the end of news articles that I read online, and I always want to write scathing responses to the idiots that make particularly ignorant comments.  But I never do.  Because this:

Don't feed the trolls!

Netflix fills me with dread.  There are too many choices!  I can spend hours scrolling through all the selections, mentally putting several on hold, and then forget what I had put on hold when I am done with all the scrolling.  So I just watch FRIENDS.


Once upon a time, I decided I was going to try internet dating.  But I got so turned off by the thought of choosing a screen name, I decided to continue being a spinster.


I bought Powerball tickets this week and had my island picked out and everything.  Obviously, I did not win, but I was actually surprised that I didn't.  Really.  I mean, I played.....I showed up, shouldn't that count for something?  Chuh.  What a racket.


I don't like scary movies, but Stephen King is my super-duper favorite author in the wholewideworld!

<3

You will probably see too many pictures of Ryan Gosling in the next 30 days.  I apologize in advance.


So.....yeeeaaaahhhh....enough about me.   I promise tomorrow's post will be a lot more interesting.


I mean, it HAS to be, dunnit??

You're welcome.