Sifting through the Whirpool of My Mind

Blueberry pie, apple pie, Kenny’s laughter and wrap-around hugs, Buckley’s cuddles and sleepy morning puppy breath yawns, Marky’s generous massages and video game glee, Jon’s voice, Magda’s soothing conversation, Lauri’s silliness, Jen’s mothering, Joseph’s RainCloud heart, Sarah Elizabeth’s hope, Cheryl’s soft quietness, Tim’s playfulness, Dara’s cookie night, Austin’s silly expressions, Aliyah’s cheeks and pouty lip, Doris’s quirkiness, Sparrow’s ballet, Golden’s bright eyes, Alyssa’s Europe heart, Stephen G’s John Deere fetish, Annie’s wildness, Camille’s home cookin’ and eatin’, Tara’s Jew pride, Trish’s King of the Castle face, Abby’s compassion, Liz’s art of worship, Mitchell’s Southern stories, Bunny’s cheer-infused greetings, Dave’s jokes, Mikey’s brotherliness, Nathan’s colorful language and honesty, Shannel’s ideas, Stephen’s humbleness, Kimberly’s Guatemala pants, Crystal’s cookie fetish, Grey’s sleepy newly awakeness, Jamie’s kindheartedness, Becker’s subtle humor…

So, I don’t know HOW it came to this, but somehow I became affiliated with the Lingerie Football League. My affiliation does not mean that:

a). I have transformed into a sexy athlete who wishes to discover her “primate” side by joining the “Atlantic Steam” or the “San Diego Seduction” and prancing around and wrestling other women while we’re all clad in ruffles that cover an extremely minute proportion of the body as sparsely as authentic meat in a McDonald’s hamburger.

b). I will watch women prancing around and tackling other women while they’re clad in ruffles that cover an extremely minute proportion of the body as sparsely as authentic meat in a McDonald’s hamburger.

c). I will market the image of women while they’re clad in ruffles that cover an extremely minute proportion of the body as sparsely as authentic meat in a McDonald’s hamburger to the begging, hornthirsty hormones of the male species.

So one of these could potentially become a lie. Which one is it?

If a movie were to be made about this, it could be entitled: A League of Their Own 2: Postfeminist Panty Pride.

Singing. Writing is part of the mind + part of the heart. But singing is HEART. In its entirety. To me, singing is breathtaking. When I watch someone sing, and sing well, and sing from the heart, an aura bursts from the singer’s body, an aura composed of a bass-beating vitality and lightening flashes of pumping blood. Or, otherwise, the aura exudes the aloneness of a person and air, and the singer’s voice seems like my own, the echo of my thoughts in my head.

I am not a singer nor a musician. If it feels like this for me, how does it feel for those who actually express it like this?

To all my friends out there who have the expression of music in them, please continue to live in it. For yourself, and for others.

Thanks to Across the Universe for inspiring this post.

Dippety-doo-da, dippety-dey,

My oh my what a fuckin’ concave.

Plenty of backpain headin’ my way.

Si-esta mattress, I hate you today!

This pleasant little diddly is a product of my wrath. My wrath is a product of a dimwitted letter. The dimwitted letter saying “No, we will not honor the warranty you paid for. Rather, we would like to royally screw you over,” is a product of a greedy, pissant bastard from the warranty department of Siesta Mattress Company. 

For some reason, the grand canyon splitting through our two-year-old, $1,700 mattress does not meet the qualifications for “manufacturing defects.” Apparently, we have to sear our asses on volcanic lava before the caverns in our mattress are considered deep enough to meet the qualifications for warranty coverage. 

Additionally, the rage-inducing letter states, “A stain found on the mattress nullifies the warranty for health and safety reasons.” Unfortunately, a minor stain on the mattress from moving prohibits Siesta from the potential profit of reselling the defunct p.o.s. to some poor cheapass fellow, who will soon after fork over his life savings to the chiropractor. The health and safety of the company is put into jeopardy when they resell a mattress with a dirt stain, but one with a giant abyss passes A-ok.

Life lesson learned: Never buy a mattress from Siesta or you’ll find yourself gorged with vexation.

A little boy, barely three years of age, dark haired, light-skinned, cherub-faced, puppy-eyed, stood next to a bench at a bus stop, in the rain, in the dark of midnight. 

He was alone. Terrified, screaming out to another planet hoping someone there would hear him because on this one there was just him and the lurking monster that is the dark.

I could see him, but I was not there. My heart kicked in my chest with the desire to sprint to him, grab him in my arms with a fierce tenderness, drown him in the warm sunlight that holding him filled my heart with, hoping to melt the sharp ice of his loneliness. “I’m here to protect you,” I would say to him, framing his soft, little-boy face, locking my eyes with his so he could see the integrity of my promise.

But I couldn’t. He was submerged in the depths of my nightmare, and it was impossible for me to dive that deep. I, too, was trapped in helplessness. And even though he was a toddler, I started feeling more like him and less like a protective mother. As if I was utterly alone in the rain, in the darkness, crying like a child.

Until he and I, estranged by imaginary walls, were no longer alone. From my perspective across the wide street, a car drove up stealthily, long black body, black window eyes, like a jaguar targeting its prey in the pitch black. The little boy’s face morphed into frozen terror at the new unanticipated fear of not being alone. My desperation to help the boy exploded into screaming and pounding on the walls that my mind could not get through. I watched in horror as one eye of the car started moving downward. The reflection of the little boy began to disappear down the inside of the car; the black outline of a top hat appeared faintly. My eyes feverishly anticipated a heavy silver glint, and I waited through the violent rattle of my heartbeat for the last half of the window to sink, revealing-

I woke up.