Random Things You Might Not Know About Me

I love Figure Skating...

I have since I was a little girl. It was one of those things that my mother could prop me in front of the tv after a day of talking her head off, and I would just sit there. Quiet. In awe of the grace and beautiful of this dance on ice happening before me.

I have been watching it for years and years.

Not that many people know that because it's rarely on and I'm too lazy to track it down most of the times.

My favorite part is the music. I love the music they use when they are doing something outside of the box. Usual music from remixes to classic rock to new wave.

This usually takes place doing free skate programs, where they cut the leash of the skater and let break out of the box with something different.

And I sit there like a dork, happy as little pig, if they happened to play an obscure track from an artist I love or adore. Hopping in my chair, talking to myself, because no one can happen me when I watch figure skating. (I talk back to the tv a lot and this makes me appear crazy.)

And so far with the Winter Olympics, no one has stood out for me.

Most of them have given way to the stress of the event and have taken to the floor. Slipping on jumps and having some issues getting through their short programs.

It was a miracle if anyone didn't fall on the floor yesterday.

Give Me Five on Monday


Give Me Five reasons you can be thankful this year.


001. My Family. My real family.

Giving birth doesn't make you a good parent, nor does avoiding your family members when they need you the most.

Credit goes to those people who stayed, when they probably shouldn't have. The family members who fought to make me smile when all I wanted to do was die; hugged me for no reason; somehow made me laugh when I wanted to do was cry my eyes out.

To my wife who has stood around through stupid fights that went no way; through me cutting myself; hugged me for hours and hours as I cried and cried over people and things that I was not strong enough to change. I am blessed to have someone so utterly beautiful who loves me through all my crap. And I shovel a lot of it.

To wake up next to that beautiful smile and mind numbing snoring is one of the most treasured things I have.




002. Working in a Recession.

It may not be everything I was hoping for; but it's a start. And a start is all we have sometimes to work with.

***No longer have this job... LONG story***


003. To have a place to live.


004. Writing.

Something so little helps me deal with all varied things that I am going through.
It doesn't matter if its straight doodling in a journal; or writing a story, it acts as a creative outlet for me and I am thankful for it. That I am able to channel my fears, frustation, angry, love all into something other then hurting those around me or myself.

005. Music, for being the thing besides writing that smoothes my savage beast.

I'm thankful for all the artists and bands I have discovered through the iTunes store; car rides in other peoples car's; the fm radio; commericals; movie trailers etc...

Top 5 on Friday: Don't Cover Me

Top 5 on Friday -------------------
(Even though it's actually Moday, so I'm running behind.)




TOP 5 SONGS YOU THINK SHOULD BE ILLEAGAL FOR ANYONE TO COVER


001. Don't Fear the Reaper - Blue Oyster Cult

It is simply perfect. A dark, almost macabe song that has everything going for it.

Interesting topic for a song --- CHECK.

Awesome Guitar Solo -- CHECK.

Does it need a modern day revamping? Hell no. Leave it be. Let it wash over you.



002. Charlotte Sometimes - The Cure

I must be going for a theme here, tonight. All the songs I have picked seem to have this glooy over tone.

But "Charlotte Sometimes" is a song that I had to hear over and over again the first time I borrowed my mom's copy of "Staring at the Sea: The Singles". It's achingly haunting and spoke to me as a teenage girl trying to find my way through the crooked path of adolescence.


003. Living in Another World - Talk Talk

An obscure song from a forgotten band in the 80's, but Mark Hollis' vocals on most of their records including this one are just so vulnerable and lush that you feel entirely what he's expressing to you.

And this song spoke to me. And the thought of someone covering it makes me sad. I don't doubt that maybe someone out there can bring some justice to it, but you'll lose the emotion that Mark Hollis gives when he sings,

"...Did I see tenderness where you saw Hell
Did I see angels in the hand I held;
God only knows what kind of tale you'd tell;
Living in another world to you...."


004. Dear God -- XTC

I have never to this day heard a cover of this song and I probably will never will.




005. This is Hardcore -- Pulp

It's Jarvis Cocker at his smooth, slighty odd self.

It's a beautifully operic piece that was set behind a music video that was reminscine of a hitchcock set and just mind blowing.

It's the kind of song that demands to be played behind a trailer of a new interesting film that is determined to be a cult classic. Not for everyone, yet those that get it's power are completly taken over by it.

I hate my boobies. Plain and simple.

Now I know I'm commiting a mortal sin somewhere out there by saying this bu I hate my breasts!

Yes.. Yes.. Breasts are wonderful things.. (Or so I have heard from most men in my life.)

But when they are not causing you to lean forward and have you start to look like either a Huntchback or Igor..

Or when you no longer feel sexy as much as I feel like a magnet for any object that needs to knocked off a counter...

Or when they have become so ridicuclously huge, you have to resort to buying all your blouses, shirts, sweaters in XL when the rest of your figure is maybe a large at best.

I swear, if I could, I would hand them out. Donate partial parts to those women of the world that crave them all so much. People like my wife, who are a B cup at best, will truly never know the pain it is to have these monsters attached your chest.

And before you all flood me with the thoughts of reduction surgery, I have done my own research and came up with these points.

1.) I haven't yet had children. So getting the reduction now in my life seems rather pointless.

2.) They can rebuilt them. Make them stronger, beautiful and cost you a arm and leg for the work.

Once they go in and reduce the size down to a G cup down to a C cup (or thats what I was hoping for)most doctors will want to try to fix your breasts up a bit. Because the reality is, if you have been carrying around a good 8 pounds her breasts, gravity is no longer a friend of mine. Instead, it pulls the sheer weight of theme down towards the floor. You are going to have extra skin left over and the doctor will want to fix that.

So insert another set of costs.

3.) From all accounts I have heard, it's extremely PAINFUL!!!

It's less intrusive a operation to add to your cup rather then take away. My friend went through teh surgery, and had her breasts taped up aginst her chest for weeks. That ace bandage made it hard for her to make the slightest moves.

Not to mention the fact, the healing process takes much longer.

Weird New Year's Resolutions

I have a Myspace.

I have a Facebook.

I have a blog.

But most of the time, I find myself either embracing them to the point of insanity or avoiding them like. Avoiding them like an ex that doesn't stop calling or coming over after it is clearly over.

----

So with this New Year, comes the resolutions.

Ahh, the resolutions. The only time of the year my obsessive need make lists seems like the status quo as everyone around starts to take stock of all the things they hope for the new year. Things they like to do, buy, aspire to do... Then wait a month before they manage to blow it.

I blew mine in under 2 days.

I tried... I really tried to make a conscientious effort to eat better.

To take charge of my portions. (My Achilles heel) I would make a plate portioned to perfection.

But my cousin made his Texas Egg rolls, and that promptly went out the window.

My brain started to negotiate with my already growling stomach. They were plotting against me. They had been doing such I tried starvation as irrational means of dieting. I manage to haul off with a handful of those bad boys.

Mental note: Starvation isn’t a very good way of dieting, especially when the stomach starts plotting.

So I decided to stick with things with in my means, instead of making ridiculous expectations on myself.

A Sad Story...

Through myspace I found out that my cousin Michelle is in the hospital on life support.

To be 100% honest with you, I don't know what to do with that.

I haven't seen this cousin since I was 7 years old. I remember her, but in short hazy bursts. I remember her longish strawberry blonde eighties hair that was slightly curly with heavy aquanet shine to it. I remember that her room was plastered in pictures of 80's metal bands, like Motley Crue, Posion and many other men wearing enough make up to make any drag queen proud.

I remember she ran up to me once when I was a little girl and took my small hand and made it into the sign of the devil and told me to show my mother what I could do. My mother, a product of 70's rock herself thought it was funny. I was young and stupid and had no clue at the time what I was doing. All I remember was that it made me burst into a uncotrolable fit of laughter.

I remember that in the days that followed my gradfather's stroke, that they (all my cousins and aunts/uncles) all followed us home to our house and I suppose tried to help each other gather up the pieces of all our broken hearts.

I remember that tripping over my baby cousin and eating the maple wood bedframe and with my head as I came to bed that night.(I promptly ditched the wooden frame after that.)

I remember my mom, my aunt Ginny, Jennifer and Michelle making fun of the local liquor store that was called something like, "Big 'O Bob's Liqour store".

I remember Jennifer, Michelle and my mom trying to (in vain) to sort through years years of paperwork that my grandfather never organized, looking through old photos of the family and doing what families do in ackward moments like that: just talk.

It took my grandfathers stroke to gather up my family together so we could see each other. To see how we had all evolved as human beings, or as in the case of some of us, how we were still growing up and trying to find out who we were.

Sadly, out of all my cousins, I knew Michelle the least. To this day I know nothing about her other than then I thought that she and cousin Jennifer were beautiful and for a short brief period in my early children years, I had considered them my sisters, since I had none.

And with the possibilty of a soul I never got to know, or see again, might leave us, is very saddening to me.

And it makes you think about all the other people that we love in a lifetime that somehow slip through our fingers almost carelessly.

Mother's day = Argh.

I really dislike certain holidays.

And when I mention to people that I hate Mother's Day, I always get the looks of shock and awe. Their face scream out, "How could you dislike a holiday celebrating the woman who brought you into this world?"

It should be noted that it's mostly women who give me these looks. Men, usually understand.

Let's talk about that women who brought me into this world, shall we.

My mother is one of a kind, putting it lightly.

She followers her own drumbeat to her own drummer, then screams at the drummer for not playing the right song in the first place.

She is essentially at her core- a demanding, self-centered, greedy, self-important person who makes time around her hard to bare.

And as if this combination wasn't lethal enough, she has over the course of ten years decided to add drinking to her all ready colorful list of traits. The drinking would lead to angry 'bouts and erractic screaming fits and a wide of assortment of objects being thrown at yours truly, for not taking her shit.

Together -- My mother and I, make a mess.

My father and brother have always had the attitude of, "Let's give her what she wants, and then she'll go away promptly?!"

Giving her what she wanted usually consisted of boxed wine (the flavour became unimportant as time went by)and cigrettes.

She would sit alone on the sofa, with a glass of that god forsaken boxed vine, and watch tv quietly. That was until the liqour made its way to her brain and started to make her thinka nd dwell on her past. On her youth and what happened to it. Where did it go? Why did she have children?

She would sit and soak in the all regrets of all past and start to pick fights with my father over things that were never really that important in the first place. Her wine glass shaking and falling on the 30 year old carpet, as the two fought. Each one getting even louder then the other.

My brother and mine doors in the back of the house slamming shut, trying to avoid the monster that been unleashed. The monster never found my brother, she found me.

I was the punching bag. I was the yelling post for her when my father would finally have enough of her shit and take off. I was the one she slurred insults at. I was the one she'd tell that I was useless and nothing.

After years and years of this, when I was 15 years old, I started to write on my wall. In any form of ink near, I would write. Mostly my feelings at the time, no matter how hurtful they happened to be, I wrote them there in bright blue ink from my perement markers or in a glitterly lavender glue pen, anything to get the point across.

You should have aborted me.
You Never wanted me.
I FUCKING hate you!
You all are chicken shits. Stop! Giving to her!!!
I hope you die.
Stop hitting me.

My parents eventually saw the writing on the wall. My father expected it. He looked at his daughter sitting on the floor of her messy bedroom, back against the bedframe looking every bit like a broken doll. Battered and wilted away, with a comatost stare. I think part of him understood why I did it, but shrugged it off as teenage behavior.

My mom, however, retaliated by writing in beige lipstick on her wall, "I Love it!"

I wrote back on my wall, "You love yourself!" in the darkest shade of red I had on me. I wanted it to look like blood red. I wanted it to be the visualization of my pain.

Blood would have been the natural choice to get the point across, but I wasn't cutting yet.

That would not take place 'till my early twenties.

And my first marks weren't cuts either. They were burns. I took the blunt edge of one of my pens and dragging against my skin about a hundren times until flesh came off and started to burn. At the time I didn't feel anything. It left a nasty mark as it tried to heal.

I covered it in gause and tape most of the time, unless I have forgotten or my dress was pushed up above my wounds.

My mom asked, and I told her that i got them at my job. She believed me.

My dad asked, and I told him the same story. He didn't believe me.

My mom didn't figure it out 'till sometime this year.

This is my mother. If it isn't about her, it isn't that important.

I have never been important to her. Not in the way that my brother has.

And today, I head off to see mother on Mother's Day, though even now, I question why. I have no money to buy anything. Most mother's would understand that, and just be thoughtful that their child is acknowledging their role in their life. I'm a little confused as what her role was exactly.

To make me feel like I cannot ever do anything right. That I'm a failure.