Cats and Dogs; Mars and Venus; and all that good shit.

When a girl’s feeling a natural hatred for men, for no reason, whatsoever (guys, listen; this is a halfway decent insight involving our bodily fluids), it is really for no reason we women can define.

Girls, you can relate. We just shut down, subconsciously, toward men, and cannot explain why. I’m going to try to tear down the walls of PMS for all of us. First of all, it is just as frustrating for women to deal with ourselves, as it is for men to deal with us. You’re floundering, splashing;  looking for the shores of sanity, and you don’t know why. You accidentally alienate nearly everyone that you love, and you have random girls who have synchronized periods (somehow) and unwittingly form the She-Man Boy-Haters’ Club. I don’t care what sex you are; you know what I mean. The Chocolate comes out and the penises go running for the nearest pub. I capitalized it for a reason, by the way…

We women know that we can have sex at any given time, but we were given the egg timer. A nine-month, full-o-consequences-out-the-wazoo, crazy, batshit egg-timer…so, we really can’t have sex any time (or with anyone) we want to. Gentleman (and I use the term loosely…as you can guess the crimson Muse for this particular rant) have to drain bank accounts just to get laid. I understand. We’re the same, but not quite. Bad credit does not quite equal a human being. Oh, but now, we women have the right to choose, so we can just flush it like a belly-up fish; right? Nah. It’s not exactly the same, but close enough that I don’t hate men, at this time every 28 days, or so, I hate me, for not really giving men the credit of having depth and feelings, until recently. 

We women like to think we corner the market on compassion, beauty, and empathy; when; in fact, men have it in spades. Straight men have been pre-conditioned for centuries not to talk about it, but it’s there, shimmering under a flimsy surface of fleeting, but standstill bravado. Gay men let it fly in the wind like a rainbow flag, sometimes. But everyone, everywhere, has his/her own personal story. And, individuals are worthwhile causes, as they go. Don’t just judge a soul by its face. Imagine and reveal what’s behind the facade.

The Craziest Dream…

I have always had pretty vivid dreams. In fact, they make it pretty hard for me to realize I’m dreaming, they’re so realistic. I have to write on my hand as a trick to realize that I’m dreaming. Occasionally, I have a nightmare so realistic that I can’t get back to sleep all night and it haunts me for months, after.

In the wee hours, I woke in a cold sweat. I dreamed that I was a desert refugee. I felt like I was in Sudan, or Tanzania, not sure which. We had built a makeshift camp, out of crates and chain-link fence. There was a spot where we could see soldiers, running toward gunfire and the dream had started that way. Gunfire. It was everywhere. I could feel the sand on my face, and it was all flies and dirt and hot. But, mostly, it was ratatatat. Gunfire. I didn’t know if it was Guerillas or soldiers. Bad guys and good guys, all mixed together. All looking the same. The children sat in the safest spot and we couldn’t sit with them. I couldn’t hold my daughter; my most primal urge. I couldn’t go to her. She was scared, but she was strong. She’d been through it, before, it seemed. We all had. So many times. And there were so many of us, all huddled together, waiting to know whether or not we’d live through the day. Friends and neighbors; strangers and brothers; all waiting. To die, or to live. Who would be here when the dice were done rolling? We had gotten some water from a stopped train, nearby, and I watched my daughter, hoping she could drink some. It was so hot. Would she drink, or would she be shot? Would she live? What could I do, without her? What would she do, without me? All of us, huddled, and more were coming. They were bloodied and bare. Naked and diseased. I grabbed one of them…a little boy who touched my daughter’s face with Leper’s hands. I sat back down, when I was told to, but I couldn’t let him just keep touching her. She still hadn’t drank. I needed her to be smart, to live, to fight. When would she drink? More refugees came and we went through a wary period. There was no knowing whether they were friendly or violent. They might try to kill us for our water. Or, for our camp. They were too weak to fight. They came and slumped. They told us the water was contaminated. So many of them. Dead and dying. I still can’t hold my daughter. Where is she!

Then, I wake up. Finally, again, I was me. But, I will never forget that glimpse. Selfishly, I hope I never get another one.

I’ve always wanted to be a stand-up comedian…

but I’m not very funny.

I can occasionally be funny on paper, just not with the delivery. I can insult people fairly well, so if I could pull off some Howie Mandell, it might work. Then again, I could probably just talk about all the wicked stupid people I come across occasionally within the course of my life.

Yeah, I’m sure I could do that. I could talk about the dumb questions people like to ask their waitresses, in what seems like nothing more than a grueling test of our smartass reflex.

Such as, “What sides do you have?”

Reply, “the sides are listed right here. Mashed potatoes, fries, macaroni salad, and onion rings.”

Stupid question, “Do you have tater tots?”

Smartass and silent answer, “Bitch, you see tots on that list?” Real answer, “the sides are listed right here. Mashed potatoes, fries, macaroni salad, and onion rings.”

There are the people who don’t understand that you don’t snap your fingers or whistle for your server. People who want to hit on their servers relentlessly. Honestly, customers suck. That’s all there is to it.

I like the assholes who leave their houses and end up on ‘People of Walmart’. Or the guys who dash in front of me from twenty feet back to open a door I was perfectly capable of handling. I have a vagina, I’m not infirm. I hate the people who use the word “epic” paired with “fail”, or the expression, “where you at?”. I don’t like old men who think everyone wants to hear their conversation and young kids who think everyone wants to hear their music. I can’t stand Eyore’s and rainbow killers, and I hope to God that someone can find Daniel Tosh’s nuts (check around back, I assume he tucks his shit away) and kick him in them. Plaid shirts and trucker caps are usually morons. The Buddy Holly glasses have got to go, guys. Just stop it.

And there you have it…stupid people. I can’t stand it. I’m starting to lose my faith in humanity. Can we step it up? Please?

Memorial days, long gone and nearly lost…

but not quite.

I have a real passion. Some people misconstrue it as some asinine attempt at having an opinion on EVERYTHING (sorry, all caps was completely necessary; this is something usually screamed at me by people frustrated by it). I don’t feel compelled to make up my mind about anything, per se. I merely have a way of living with/through/for my kind. Humanity, to me is not anything to ever be brushed aside as something trivial, as another entity outside of and separate from myself. This has gotten me into a lot of trouble in my life. It has also given me a wonderful satisfaction at having truly done my best. I’ve screwed up; don’t get me wrong. I’ve been on the wrong end of life too many times in mine, but I have always fought  my way back to the place I need to be. 

I reach out, in my own way, to all of us. When you think about any art form, it was a way of stretching out a hand to our fellow Wo/Man. Television, Phones, electricity; all ways of connecting us. And this desire goes back to the very beginnings, the first inklings of humanity, in the creations of tribes/villages/cities. The Internet is the ultimate example of this innate urge, to connect with our species. 

We don’t, however, love strangers. This is something lost on us. I’m not talking about sexual love, either, but about a pure empathy for someone we have never been and never known. There are situations to which we can relate, in other peoples’ lives, and we are quick to sympathize: big difference. This is a superficial comparison based upon our own experiences and what we think the other might be similarly feeling. Sympathy is better than nothing, but it is far from noble. 

I can’t bear to look at a fallen soldier, or a car crash, or even roadkill. I can’t help but wonder where they were going, what they were doing, to whom they should have come home…maybe even in just a few short minutes. Other lives flash before my eyes and then I write about them. I am always learning, always changing, always growing. We can’t help it. We tend to shut it out, but that’s a defense mechanism, because it hurts to care. It’s exhausting. It’s easier just to shut out the strangers and only care about the people we know and always have…the people we let into our little circles. But the thing about circles is…they’re always perfect and they have no limit in scope.

Don’t think of the stranger as “someone like you”; imagine being the stranger.

The thing about pop culture is…

You’re readily/easily/immediately irrelevant. 

In this day and age of instant gratification and revolving door recycled trends, we don’t stand out as the most sophisticated or introspective group of people. In fact, it seems we’ve spent a couple generations on merely forgetting that we are people…distracting ourselves from life, rather than embracing it. If life truly imitates “art”, then we are a bunch of Sims, shopping around for temporary brands of happiness. Can I ask a question? Well, another one, anyway…

What the fuck happened to simplicity???

When did a sunrise become irrelevant? We ignore (quite without a murmur) the little bits of joy passed to us from our Creator. It’s not “cool” to sit outside and soak up the sunshine, feel the wind in our face, or gaze out at the few trees we haven’t demolished in the name of “progress”. And we never take the time to miss it, either. We distract ourselves from real life with a fake existence of wasting time and counting minutes. We have to spend money, impress other people, eek our way to justification in any way deemed “socially acceptable”.  You can’t just LIVE. No…that would put lots of sleazebag salesman/lawyer/ad monkey types out of a job. How atrocious. We are and must be a nation of consumers. Buy shit you don’t need, they beckon, because we say you might need it one day.

It’s all a gimmick…bottom line is ratings…soulless, yuppie, 80’s bad guys in a jar, is what we have become (with a few rare gems of exception; relatively speaking). Look in the mirror and tell yourself the fucking truth. It sucks, but it’s the only way to fix us. 

All of us.

You can just tell…

(my secrets)

I can tell a lot about a person by looking at them. Not at what they wear, or how they talk, but at the subtleties that make up a human life. Their eyes, hands, and shoulders all tell their stories. And I am an avid reader. For example, in any person’s eyes, written underneath the current expression (worn just for the occasion), you will find a mind reaching out, to meet yours.

A person’s hands tell you the story of his/her life: the roads traveled, if you will. Hands will tell you if they work hard, or if they’ve led a manicured existence. If they’ve fought their way to this point, or oozed past us on easy-going sidelines.

Shoulders…well, I hate to ever see them slump. It absolutely breaks my heart to see another human being at his/her breaking point. A person’s shoulders tell you a great deal about self-worth. This is, perhaps, the most integral. It’s one’s opinion of oneself, put forth into the world, which determines one’s destiny within/of/among Wo/Mankind.

Since this is specifically not your mom’s blog, I am going to ignore the impending holiday and write about something else. Bars, for example.

Has anyone noticed how hard it is to find a bar you like enough to go to on a semi-regular basis? I’m not talking about the guys who are there every night after work, but sporadic regulars (how’s that for oxy-moronic?), like me. I’ll frequent a place on random nights, drink different beers, maybe eat; maybe not; but I have to be comfortable with the atmosphere first.

As a woman, I tend to rate a new watering hole, first and foremost, on its creepiness factor. It’s not so much the amount of guys who hit on me, as much as it is, the type of guys and the way they go about it. Suffice it to say, I have yet to find a “regular” place in my most recent new town. And, of course, being a single mom, now, I’m much more sporadic than I ever was in my youth.

Next, I tend to rate a bar on its beer selection (I have never really been a hard liquor girl). Beer selection is important because, while I have several go-to beverages, I like to try new things. 

After that, I rate the bar on its staff, music, and overall feel. I like a ‘Cheers’ type of atmosphere and that’s hard to find in the South. Here, in Ga., only two bars I have ever been to are really comfy for me (and I worked at both of them). Manuel’s Tavern, on N. Highland in Atlanta and Maguire’s in Senioa (pretty well south of the city) are my two favorites. As for Stockbridge (Ga.; not Ma.), the jury’s still out. 

A lot of times, if I can find a little corner from which to observe my fellow man, I’m happy. Like Peter Sellers’ character  in ‘Being There’, sometimes, I just like to watch. We are, after all, a very curious species.

The Power of the… (what!)

I was faced with a weird question earlier. A question on top of a conundrum, so that I became baffled to the point of pissed off.

A couple of obnoxious boys (Frat-ish, with the ball caps and flannel shirts; you know; just short of Hipster, only because they tried to hard) were next to me at the bar being loud and over-sexed assholes. I tuned them out after a bit. As they were leaving, though, the young bartender stopped one of them and asked, “Did you get somebody pregnant?”

He nodded, reluctantly, and the other party’s life flashed before my eyes. To her, he loved her. To the girls at the bar, she was someone he knocked up. To him, she and the unborn (unfelt) child were an obligation for which he was utterly unprepared. He looked like a snared animal for just a second, if only to me, and maybe I’m crazy, but he seemed to accept the duty like a soldier going to his noble if inevitable execution.

Then, my life flashed before my eyes. I, too, got pregnant unexpectedly. I was forced to duty, though it’s one I thoroughly enjoy. I, however, had no choice. So, I started wondering…

If a woman must care for the child, even though we both created the child; if we as women are obligated all the way through nine months of hell followed by the that perfect moment; do we have the right to take the child away, should the father prove unworthy to the mother?

I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought and (forgive me, ladies)…no. No, I don’t think we do. Isn’t it odd that they seem able to walk away anytime they want but we have no right to take their child away….again; no. Here’s my problem, the same moral code written upon the hearts of the men who don’t leave, is the same as that we have, purely for our children’s protection.

I put forth to myself, the question of whether a child is better off without a father, or with one who is (potentially) abusive? I know children, who are equally damaged or “normal” (as best our society can manage to describe, at any rate) who came from either situation. I ask because it’s a legitimate (largely unanswered) question. “Nature versus Nurture” still wages war and the answer would help put the argument to bed. You see, I believe that it’s the child, exponentially more than the parents, who determine(s) the child’s life, but that the child has to be exceptionally strong-willed to overcome the consequences of abuse/abandonment.

I must believe, as a mother, that it is ultimately up to all three (or four, or five, or however many) parties of the immediate family to decide the family dynamic; subconsciously or outright. I considered taking my daughter far away. My logic was; if he’ll hit me, he’ll hit her. Honestly, I feel like it will never be my place to assume an evil upon a person they’ve never committed. Therefore, I could never remove her from his life unless he actually crossed that line with her. Then, I would have no choice. As far as I’m concerned, I’m a different story. Whenever he got out of line with me, I can mostly understand his anger; just NOT how far he took it. 

I couldn’t just beat someone up…no matter how strong I was. How does one take complete advantage of another human being, just because they are little? It’s the most disgusting form of Capitalism. If I could destroy him, I wouldn’t (all the hims).

And didn’t.

So, why did he keep pounding away at me?

Can I ever take my little girl away from her Daddy?

No.

Should I have???

I doubt it.

Just another random venting session

I sat here with my notebook out, ready to write, and I started doodling instead, which is never a good sign. I hate when that happens. It’s why I sometimes get right to it on the laptop, refusing, even, to kick it old school at all. Other times, like today, I wind up being glad that I stuck with the tree-killing paper I love so much, because it just starts flowing, this stream of words and thoughts you can’t stop. It’s a feeling akin to leaving work on autopilot to find yourself suddenly at home without realizing how you got there. 

I need to flow a little more, though. I feel like this book; the project that is so dear to my heart; has gotten a bit stagnant. I keep running into walls, and I wonder if I shouldn’t just walk up to arbitrary strangers to ask about it. It would add the reassurance of anonymity, but I don’t know how many girls would be honest and I seriously doubt that any men would talk about it. I guess trust is a big part of all this, too. It does bring up a good point, however, in that I should certainly conduct a poll within a cross-section of strangers, merely to determine how many lives have been touched/tainted/infiltrated by domestic abuse.

It is getting a little better, as I sit and mull. I no longer feel like some moron sitting around, waiting for words that will never come. Sometimes they do that; you know; just dance outside the window of my mind, teasing me with unfulfilled promises. I’m glad to report that this is not one of those nights.

Slump?

I have been away for a bit; yes this is true. However, I don’t know that I would call it a “slump”, exactly. It’s definitely not Writers’ Block (that dreaded affliction), I have just been working on two separate projects very close to my heart. One is very fun to write and play with; the other…well, let’s just say the other simply must be written. It has been in my mind for so long, now (nearly six years and just about finished when I started, as I have a great deal of expertise in the area) it is absolutely pounding to get out. It’s something I feel has to be said, since it’s a subject  which most of the human populous prefers to ignore, despite the fact that its victims are many and its perpetrators the worst sort of cowards. Anyhow, it’s uncomfortable enough to be right up there with the giant taboos in proper dinner conversation (religion, politics, domestic violence; oh, my!).

I have some girls to interview for the book, and some names to change (I think I’m actually just going to assign them numbers) before it’s ready to be sent out for rejection, but, ready it soon will be. I fear sometimes, that I am stretching myself too thin. I am a single, working mother, a writer, a teacher, an all-nighter, to say the least, and with all the turmoil, I am taking on the whole of the abusive, violent population as a defender of men (yes, them, too), women, and MOST IMPORTANTLY children, who are stuck in the Cycle. Forget getting my hands dirty; I’m jumping headfirst into the muddy, bloodied arena. 

Jesus…what was I thinking. Oh well, as I said, it must be told, and I’m the one without psychobabble and jargon, to speak to those of us who couldn’t afford or weren’t given the education I self-inflicted between raw experience and good ol’ fashioned book learnin’. I guess I got off topic, but hey, rambling is probably just what my readers (thank you, for that) expect by now. 

Good night. 

-J-