Almost a lesbian?

It’s 5 am and I go through the usual grinding of gears that I do. Every day feels like Groundhog day. Each day slightly more painful and harder to force my will into submission. Shove my legs into the sausage casings that people call “athletic pants,” lace myself into my shoes, hoist my sad boobs into their harnesses and out the door I go; praying that age-old trick of “I can’t see you, you can’t see me” holds true as I hit the streets for a run. I don’t do this because I like to, I do it because I like food and I have Hispanic hips. I also like to feel better than you. It’s easy to do this; I can tell you I run 3 miles a day and forget to mention that I hate doing this shit and sweat like pig and sound like a car on its last leg with a dirty carburetor as I collapse at the base of my stairs.   

After this morning’s little brush with death (because that’s what I equate these runs to now) I take my shower and pick out my wardrobe for the day. Showing up for work in a bathrobe is frowned upon even if where I work is super chill, so I stand in front of my closet for what feels like eternity. E-T-E-R-N-I-T-Y. I need a gay male friend to help me with these decisions. I would certainly make better choices. My “give-give-a-fuck” button has been on the fritz since 1998 and if I’m being honest – which is rare – my fashion sense is spotty at best. We can talk about the 90’s when I wore plaid and Dr. Marten’s with bodysuits, but we won’t. Today, I settled on a respectable black silk-ish (I don’t know my fabrics, hence the need for a gay BFF) tank top and slate gray slacks. I decided to pair this with the pair of Puma sneakers I commandeered from my son; very Ellen DeGeneres. Being that I lack the ability to make solid choices when it comes to dressing myself I decided to text my mother. Wait, that’s a lie… I was super proud of myself. I looked super cute and wanted to share. What transpired was a pretty ridiculous conversation that I am happy to share snippets of.

Me: I’m going to "Ellen" them with the boys Puma shoes

Mom: Cute

Me: I know

Me: OMG! I’m an adorable “would-be” lesbian

Mom: Would be?

Let’s pause here – WTF does she mean?? Is she saying she thought I was a lesbian, is she questioning whether or not I intend to become one?? Thanks for the vote of confidence mother. I go on to tell her that there is a problem with this. I like the male anatomy far too much to become a lesbian. That’s not actually how I said it; I didn’t say “male anatomy,” but I’ll leave that wording to your imagination.

Let’s press on –

Me: I wonder if there’s still hope for me? I can change! JK (insert three laughing/crying emoji for effect)

Mom: Questionable.

Mom: Don’t change. I like guessing.

Me: Like Amy Schumer says, vagina, on its best day smells like a small barnyard animal, at least hers does and I’m not down with that. Besides, I’m far too competitive to ever be a lesbian and I don’t fuck ugly bitches. Also, “Don’t change, I like guessing?” That’s your answer??? Perfect!

Mom: I love you bitch.

Me: We’ll see about that. If I get around to it, this has all the makings of a nice little blog. “Almost a lesbian” My mom: my muse.

Mom: You’ve been riding that ledge since teen years. You’ve got the heterosexual wall by fingernails, either way, I love you.

Me: I got nuthin… (insert laughing emoji for effect)

By no stretch of the imagination am I considering life as a lesbian. I am also not an “available” woman. In fact, I am one of the acridest and most inhospitable places on earth. Nothing survives here. Most days I am mildly amused (mostly terrified though) that I was able to carry Curran to term, manage the whole “birthing” thing and that he’s still alive. I am fascinated by the fact that neither of us sits in the corner of the room gently swaying back and forth eating chalk and frothing at the mouth. I kill Chia pets, lose pets rocks, barely manage to dress myself and function in public; having relationships with other human beings is tough. I resort to caveman tactics regularly. Grunting and swinging are natural behaviors and forms of communication for me. It’s bad enough that there is one of me roaming the planet; Curran is out there too you guys. He is out there, he’s going to be big and I can only pray that his gentle heart stays gentle and that the part of me that is crazy and unpredictable stays dormant in him – because if it doesn’t…we’re all fucked! 

Like my mother says to me though: “Either way, I love you.” I will love him the way she loves me; unconditionally. Gay or heterosexual, uncompromising and uncouth - to her, I'm still pretty perfect. I'm good with that...I got all the people I need. Alright, can I have my inheritance now?? 

Women of Spirit

Food for thought as I am examining the part I play in all of my relationships. I am reading a friends book: "Women of Spirit," compiled and edited by, Marie Manning and I stumbled upon a passage written by Grace Ventura, who is a Wellness-Coach. I needed to share - big surprise, but maybe it will help someone else as well. 

"Responsibility is defined as the ability to respond. What truly is my ability? How much energy can I manage? This is determined by my health, vitality and care of myself in mind, body and spirit...as well as my willingness to let go of the old beliefs that dis-empower and disable me. And then comes boundaries. Knowing where my internal limits are and honoring them without making myself wrong...limits about what feels like enough...either too much or too little." pg. 61

The relationships I hold with others as well as the one I am creating with myself pivot on this principle and perhaps that is why this struck me today. Maybe (hopefully) someone else will get something out of it today too. <3

My damn cat

So I was trying to upload a new image for the blog page this morning and my shithead cat photobombed me. Thanks asshole.

Tooth Fairy

It is with a heavy heart that I begin this little story…

                A few weeks ago I had some upgrades started on my face. Nothing major, just some metal drilled into my face, in what would certainly be months of waiting for the final product: a shiny tooth. Today, I watched the dentist pull the metal from face – 3k worth of what is essentially a steroid enhanced staple.

                Last night I’m sitting on my couch watch GOT (yeah, so what – say something. You watch this shit too, don’t even play like ya’ll don’t) after a nice meal and I’m macking on my Quaker Carmel Cakes when I notice that something feels very, very wrong. 1) Quaker Carmel Cakes are fucking delicious, try them. 2) They are fucking delicious, try them. 3) Don’t get between me and these things, I have hurt people for less. 4) I’ve given up booze and drugs, afford me a few liberties; shitty television, swearing and crap food aren’t going anywhere – adjust or be gone. Anyhow…I’m inhaling these little morsels of heaven and I stop mid bite and realize that all hell is breaking loose in my mouth. Legitimately. All hell. Breaking loose. Right now. This fantabulous piece of metal do-hickey costing 3k is just about to fall out in my mouth. I am going to swallow this bitch in my sleep if I’m not careful and I am NOT about to start rooting through my own feces to find it should that take place. “Here Doc, I swallowed it but don’t trip - I found it in my turd, it’s all good” as I drop a dirty Ziploc on the counter. Um hell no! About a zillion different scenarios play out in my head. In one, I choke on it and die leaving my son motherless; what will be engraved on my headstone? “She finally bit off more than she could chew?” Then there’s the storyline where I don’t actually swallow it, but it gets lodged in my brain and I end up a vegetable for life. No more bothering with questions like “flats or heels, dress or jeans?” Takes the guess work out of “what’s for dinner?” I can be practical.

                So I took my practical self to the dentist first thing in the morning. I sat in the chair while he and his assistant poked and prodded around in my mouth. She’s looking at me while she’s snapping her hands into her gloves and asks “no allergies to latex, right?” I am choking back the urge to say some off-color joke. I refrain from saying anything in my typical wheelhouse and manage to simply cough out “no” and they proceed. You know shit is all wrong by the looks on their faces. This isn't even my doctor. My doctor is apparently off playing golf somewhere or tagging a nurse in a broom closet. I don’t know that, but I hope he is; maybe then he’d stop wearing those ridiculous socks. So this doctor is all kinds of worried; I can see it. I look him square in the face and tell him “If you tell me that shit is molly bolted in there and I’m trippin, I will get up out of this chair and leave, and it will be good” to which he replies “Well, I never want to take out another doctors’ implant.”  Here we go…

                He reaches his latexed paw into my mouth and barely touching the metal shaft, pulls it out slowly. That sounded oddly more erotic than I had intended. I feel slightly ill. Yep, he pulls out my little implant and lays it on a piece of gauze and offers to hand it to me. Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t want to see that shit. That was my hopes and dreams. You want to hand me my hopes and dreams on a bloody little pillow? What kind of sick bastard are you?? This is where it gets kind of touchy. If you have feelings – stop reading. Either from first-hand personal knowledge or readings that I have posted, you may be aware of the fact that I lack tact and etiquette. Social graces? Zero. Zilch. Nada. So it goes that without saying that what transpired next was classic “Tina.” The words that came out of my mouth were: “I feel like I just miscarried.” I followed that up with “I am not paying for this all over again!” Now before everyone starts sending hate mail and death threats and flaming dog shit; I am not at all trying to minimize what expectant mothers who face this tragedy go through. NOT AT ALL. My heart goes out to each and every one of you, this is just what fell out of my mouth in that dentist’s office. To be clear, also, there was a certain amount build up around the whole event and then it all fell apart in my lap – or his hand as the case were. In hindsight, the simile was not very considerate, compassionate or appropriate. I laughed though. I’m going straight to hell, but I laughed.

                I have spent the rest of the afternoon licking my wounds, playing with the hole in my face where the expensive piece of bling should be, listening to music and being downright ornery with my co-workers. Oh, and I washed my car yesterday and today it rained. Anything else you want to throw at me?? I have an empty space in my face where I can catch it.


Below is a reference: That big mama-jamma is what they pulled outta my face hole; the one labeled "implant." I get to have that drilled back into my cranium in three months. Yay!

                 

  

Typical Sunday

Captains Log Stardate 8*13*17

So I went to Church today and the pastor said some shit that I’ve heard before but struck a chord louder and more deafening than usual. He said “Our goal in life should be how we live it not where we end up.”

Tina, you go to Church? Yes, I attend church. If anyone’s ass needs saving, it’s mine. I may not subscribe to the same religious upbringing that was not so much a suggestion growing up but was more just the way things were. I remember telling my Catholic Grandmother that I was exploring other religions; the paramedics were dispatched shortly after. No, they weren’t but she also didn’t speak to me for nearly a month and dismissed my curiosity the same way she dismissed me when I went vegetarian or had any other ideals that did not fit the schemata she already had set in place. I don’t blame her. She’s old; old as fuck and unwilling to see things differently. Imagine if I had told her I was a lesbian or I was joining Greenpeace. I still have love for her even though she fed me beans made with lard when I was vegan. Change and acceptance is tough ya’ll – I struggle on the daily. Maybe that’s why I feel better after having lowered my ass into a seat on Sunday mornings. I surrender to something that I don’t understand, yet I always feel better for having done so. I accept that I’m a shitty person that does fucked up shit and while God doesn’t come down to play a game of Battleship with me or grab a Gelato together to make the icky feelings go away, I feel like I get what I need in that big room full of strangers I have no intention of EVER meeting or talking to.

Making my goal in life how I live it and not where I end up; sounds legit - easier said than done though. I sat in that giant classroom (that’s what it feels like to me) this morning and I thought to myself “I got this.” That’s my famous line. I’ve never met a situation that I didn’t come at sideways saying “I got this shit” and invariably always fucked up. ALWAYS. So I’m thinking about how in theory, that sounds easy and I should be able to live that lifestyle. I could tweak a couple of things here and there and BOOM I’m living an honorable life that is on the up-and -up. Then I remember who I am. Wah-wah-wah! Now, I’m not saying I’m completely incapable of change; I’m just saying it’s a little like bamboo torture for me. Putting all of my faith in the “hope” basket seems kind of foolhardy or maybe I should strike that and reverse it? Hope in the faith basket? Growing up aren’t we taught that we need to make our own way, forge our destinies? Aren’t we taught that we need to have a major in college as well as a minor – a plan B in case some shit falls apart in your lap? Maybe your degree in American Literature or Classic French Art gets you nowhere and you need to fall back on that Business degree. Isn’t that about where you end up?? I signed up for none of that shit. I was a clever girl and signed up Applied Behavioral Sciences. I can’t afford therapy and I don’t’ need to tell anyone my secrets; I’ll only have to bury their body later. I hate manual labor. I’ll just treat myself. Want it done correctly? Do it yourself.  I’m also inherently lazy, so here we sit – me, untreated and stark raving mad and you my, captives. I stopped saying “hostages” a while ago because it sounds so hostile. “Captives” sounds like it still has potential to have the word “audience” after it.

The dichotomy of what we are taught growing up so starkly contrasting what I was hearing in that massive classroom this morning hit me hard. I wanted to exit stage left, get myself my coffee from my local chain establishment, destroy all the patrons in my head (I did) and then plan out the rest of my life moment by moment and chastise myself for not meeting my moment by moment itinerary. It’s not enough that I do this already in bouts of periodic depression; I need to do this on a Microsoft Calendar and sync it with my iPhone and all other mobile devices to make sure that I don’t miss a step. I walked into Church this morning feeling moderately hard on myself and now I think I just need to step up my game a little; you know, stay ahead of things. And that my friends, is just how quickly my shit can get derailed. I have just taken a sermon intended to keep me safely in God’s loving grace and turned it into how I am fucking it all up and how to ensure I stay a step ahead of the Big Man. Apparently I am once again saying “I got this shit.”

I may never really know what living a life not concerned with the end destination looks like. I am a shallow and materially driven woman.  I have a good heart too, but at the end of the day, my creature comforts win. I am human, fallible and learning to accept those things. That doesn’t mean that there isn’t room for growth, it just means that for now if you touch my Quaker Carmel Cakes without asking or adjust the thermostat, I may not have room for you in my life. If you are in direct opposition with the plans I am creating presently for myself – feel free to see yourself to the door because I am a nice person and gosh darn it, people like me. Just kidding; I’m an asshole; don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

Table for 1

there is a line upon which I dance

a thin line and wavering line

gently undulating

or

violently careening

between

insanity,

greatness,

destruction

wildfire

and the rainstorm that calms my soul

burn it all to the ground

walk away from it all

laughing madly

dark hallways and alleys you fear

places you’re sure

to lose your mind

you’ll find me there

at a table for one

crying out my song for all to hear

ferocious heart

ungovernable will

a siren in the empty streets

inspiration can be a lonely place

pull up a chair

found my worth

one day

in losing my battle with self

set beliefs ablaze

cut the fat

and it burn it too

dance around the fire

i’ll keep you warm

"safe" is not my cup of tea

these days

but you can dance with me

if you like

Back to basics

Yo! Let’s get real about some stuff this morning. I’ve tried my hand at some other writings the last couple of days and now that I’ve dusted off those unused keys on my keyboard; the ones other than F-U-C and K and also S-H-I and T – let’s talk about some for real shit.

Friday Morning Traffic: To the douche-nozzle in the puce colored Kia Soul driving along the shoulder – I hope you pop your tire and crash your ugly car. Is it really that important to get ahead of me? Must you try that diligently to not merge with the rest of traffic because somehow you think that your shitty little four-banger is better than mine or anyone else’s on the road for that matter? Got news for you: the shoulder was not placed there so that you could utilize it to “get ahead” or “one up” the rest of us. Wait. I just pulled up alongside of you two miles down the road; a lot of good it did you. It is 8 am, I am not caffeinated yet, I’m still rubbing sleep from my eyes and have taken cold showers for the last two days because my apartment complex has no hot water. Fuck with me. I dare you. You’re lucky I have to pee and coffee is the most important task on my itinerary at the moment.  

Satellite Radio is messing up my game: I put my pants on just like anyone else - one leg at a time and praying that I maintain balance. I need full body armor or bubble wrap at the very least to perform even the most menial of tasks without ending up in the urgent care. Just like the rest of civilized peoples (I’ll count myself among them today) I have preset radio stations. I do this because I truly love music of all kinds, because I’m inherently lazy by nature and thought of dial turning makes me tired, and because I have a vehicle that offers this so why the hell not?? Certain times of day call for certain types of music. Typically, my morning commute is fueled by the station that they called “Faction.” This glorious station was a columniation of punk and a generous sprinkling of “beats.” You would hear bands like Fugazi, Screeching Weasel, Rancid and Descendants then BLAM you’d get slapped with Tribe Called Quest or Binary Star. It was my Zen.  It died this morning. Or rather I noticed it was dead when I went to put the station on and it had been replaced by Guns and Roses. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! An entire station dedicated to this shit band 24/7?! Oh, for fucks sake! I hate you SiriusXM. I want a refund of my $20.00/month so I can get my nails done and listen to the ladies in the nail salon talk shit about me in a foreign language. Extreme? Maybe. Music is my sanity though, and you just stole it. Did I mention this is day 2 of cold showers? FML.

Am I famous yet? While I truly enjoy the rewarding feeling of getting up every morning before the sun and working a solid 8-10 hours without hearing a “thank you” or “nice job” more than once a year – which is at our Christmas party when my boss begrudgingly hands me my bonus check while still holding onto it firmly like he doesn’t want to part ways with it – I’m really over it too. Picking up a paycheck every two weeks that just barely keeps my ass in house and home is great; and don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful…but I would also love to sit on my ass reading all day and tossing grapes into the open mouth of a monkey (because I want a pet monkey – one that won’t eat my face off) while fanning myself with the latest copy of Rolling Stone. You thought I’d say something I had written, didn’t you?? I’m not that arrogant. Yet. There’s always a yet…

Stay humble my friends.

Strike while hot

I have to be in the mood

To drink 

To smoke

To write

Dance or even to fuck

It's a conscious effort on my part

A stage to set 

With actors and scenes

This shit bar offers few options

The married man staring hard at my tits

The woman in the corner whose husband left her

And the drunk in the corner who pissed himself

But then - just then I see him

He'll do - just the right kind of man 

For tonight - perhaps tomorrow if I don't bore of him 

Mood; like jazz notes hanging

Heavy

In the summer night air 

And if neither of us speaks

Our lines are

Perfect

When you think about how easily it all goes wrong 

It's easier to never begin

Instead we dance

And drink

And fuck 

I'll write until dawn and when the sun is on the avenue below

He'll leave

And I am alone again

Maybe I'll be lonely again 

Sometime 

Or maybe not

It's easier to never start

But sometimes 

The mood catches me 

And I'm fucked

Routine

And the water in the shower is biting cold

Again

I stand beneath the stream

Naked, shivering and painfully still

Screaming

Silently

The neighbor’s dog, Jethro, is bounding across the floor upstairs

I can hear him

The way I always do

And I close my eyes

Coffee is burning in the other room

I’ll need more than this

So much more than this

To get by

I lose myself in these moments

Stumble into dreams

Awaken to apocalypse

And it’s all I can do to keep from laughing myself into tomorrow

Where I’m standing beneath the same fucking shower head

And drinking burnt coffee

Myspace or your space?

This shit was my wedding day. I’m 28 years old in this picture, I have a new baby and I’m relatively good looking. I should be happy, right? One would think so. Can you see the look of concern on my baby’s face? I have this look of “Fuck it, I guess this is it, someone pass me the bottle of champagne” Yanko (that’s my ex-husbands name) is thoroughly disgusted. His sour ass face is straight up HATING me already and we have just barely said our vows. We were married in his brother’s backyard in New Jersey, don’t ask me what month or year anymore as I have shoved those details into the farthest and darkest corners of my mind hoping never to remember; it was a crap relationship to begin with and this marriage would set the tone for the next two years. A picture is worth a thousand words? Choke on this shit people. We fucking hated each other. I at least tried to look like I wasn’t going to kill him in his sleep. Don’t worry, I’ll keep this short and sweet just like my marriage.

Yanko and I met on Myspace. Hahahahahahahaha. Myspace: should just end the story here. Nuff said. Myspace is to the dating world what Kmart is fine clothing retail. After some time messaging back and forth we agreed to meet up at a bar, because what else would an alcoholic chick who likes to dance and thinks she’s hot shit do? For real, I thought I had mad game back in the day. I was at the same bar every Thursday – Saturday. It is NOT respectable when the bouncers all know you by first name and know that you dance alone. I always danced alone and the bouncers were kind enough to re-inforce that for me. It is NOT respectable when you are on a first name basis with the musicians and they know “your” song is Mustang Sally and play it for you at approximately the same time each night because they understand that pretty soon those shots of Patron and Gin and Tonic chasers are going to catch up with you and your dancing is compromised – and that’s a generous understatement. It’s NOT respectable to lose your belongings at the bar and say “fuck it” because you know you’ll be back next week and Ted (bartender) will hold onto your crap for you. So, Yanko and I met at my bar. I spit my game, he spits his and 6 months later I was preggo.

This dude was crazy tall! 6’7” to be exact. When he wore shoes, which was rare because his ass lived in flip flops, he was 6’8” or taller. I would go to give him a hug and my eyes were level with his nipples. I felt like a midget. Sorry - little person. No, fuck it! Midget. My blog, my rules. I think there was something attractive about him being so damn big but at the moment I can’t remember. I just remember having neck aches from having to look up all the damn time. Now that I think about it, I’m kinda pissed we didn’t go to concerts; his shoulders would have been perfect for viewing. I’m sorry little people behind us, you can’t see? Guess you should have purchased seated tickets instead of lawn seats like us peasants. He wasn’t all bad. He liked animals, was cool with plants, and for better or worse is a good father to our son. We were/are just complete opposite ends of the spectrum. For the most part I’m happy-go-lucky (yes, I am!) and he was always (yes, always) more like someone just kicked his dog. I can’t be happy for you and you can’t drag me down. The bottom is too cold for me.

Why get married? Because I told him he better marry me. LMAO. Yes, that is exactly how that shit went down. It is my own damn fault I am in that wedding photo wondering if I am going to make it through the night. It is my fault I am wondering if I just spent $400.00 on a gown that I will most likely defecate in later. You know you shit yourself when you die, right? I looked that nearly 7-foot-tall Sasquatch in the eye and said: “You better marry!” I had never before said something so stupid (not true, definitely said dumber shit before; will again too I’m sure) I was empty as hell on the inside and I think I was trying to fill my emptiness with someone else’s empty. Guess what? Still empty, but now I’m empty and angry. 

I keep looking back at the wedding photo for inspiration. He didn’t even wear shoes to our wedding. He wore his Vans. Beat up kicks with holes in the bottom. We ate subs that night and shitty shrimp cocktail. The only redeeming part of the evening was that my dad was there. I wanted to cry the whole time. I wanted to cry and drink and forget and hide. I couldn’t though. I created this shit. I created it and now I was stuck in New Fucking Jersey!!!

Holy shit, Tina! “This just got really fucking dark and fucked up,” you may be saying to yourself - don't. I laugh my ass off when I look at this photo. I for real thought I was going to shit the dress. I for real thought my life was over. The disdain and visible disgust is comic to me now. I honestly thought I was going to be stuck for the rest of eternity tethered to a douche bag that I hated and I knew HATED the fuck out me too. Nothing is permanent, or at least it doesn’t have to be.

I could not have imagined the twists and turns my life would take, some good and some bad, but they’re all mine and I own them much like I own my foul mouth and quirky ways. It’s what makes me, me. I had no idea then that that woman up there would become the woman I am today. If your life is shit today, hang in there, it could get worse tomorrow; but it could also get better.

 Hang in there ~ it gets better... 

ps: I lied about it being short. I'm still a liar :)