What In The World and Are Those Caterpillars?

I have long suspected that there is something different, something special and unusual, about what draws a person to become a blogger.

That's my opinion and my opinions are just that ... my opinions. And who am I but a lady who stays home with her kids and yet, I say, bloggers are off the beaten path. They search for something else, something more ... there's not enough for them in one world, they need another one. They search for community, opportunity, a bigger place to play than that of their own backyard.

Some day, just give yourself 30 minutes, blindly blog hop, and you will come across indescribable varieties of posts. Artists, photographers, foodies, poets, home decor, knitting, memoirists, aspiring authors, tech mamas, humorists, collectors, product reviews, cat lovers, social do-gooders.

And the ones like me: just looking for others that came from the same planet.

Too many times to count, throughout my days, I have wished to be in a village of bloggers like me: those whose mother spaceship ricocheted off course and crash landed here eons ago. I have days where I just want to be among my kind. Where I know no matter what shenanigans I pull, you will all get it. No questions asked, just nodding acceptance. I imagine that's what this village would be like, a land of  instant understanding, no explanation required.

Too many times in my day, I long to walk out into that village, like tonight.

I've told you before about my seasonal depression. I've come up with all sorts of mini-weapons in my arsenal to fend off that snarling black dog. One of my not so secret weapons is tiny little self-improvement projects. (Please don't get ahead of me here.)

Seasonal depression strikes fast with a punch that's hard, deep; and it doesn't wait for it to be an opportune time for you. It doesn't wait until you're under a warm, snuggly blanket at home, resting in front of a crackling fire, surrounded by those you love, and who love you.  Seasonal depression descends upon you when it decides to. By throwing its 500-pound weight straight at your head. It knocks you out with the swooping force of surprise and with a grip so tight you feel like you're trying to swallow a hard boiled egg. With no glass of water.

In my case, that foul spirit swept down on me yesterday, suffocating me with its impenetrable dark cloak, as I unsuspectingly grocery shopped for my family. My plan was to make a wonderful winter's day meal, and I couldn't wait to get back home and get started.

KA-POW ZING and HAHAHAHAHAHA, guess who wants to visit you?

Right in the middle of the cereal aisle. BAM. This wicked beast waited until I was happy and smiling to myself like an idiot, and then it came chomping down on my vulnerable grinning head. I was in Aisle #4, the cereal aisle, reaching for a box of Cheerios, and at that precise moment, the supermarket Muzak piped in with Wayne Newton's Daddy Don't You Walk So Fast.

Within seconds of hearing the lyrics Daddy, don't you walk so fast My darlin' cried Daddy, don't you walk so fast Daddy, slow down some 'cause you're makin' me run Oh, daddy, don't you walk so fast my entire field of vision was reduced to a blurry mess. And the free association that went on with that song?? Ho my god. My free association is the kind that prohibits me from EVER doing ANY kind of Stream of Consciousness post. 


With your well being in mind, I shall limit your exposure to only 20 seconds worth, but here it is:


What I listen to in my head all day:

Oh! It's that song...Daddy don't you walk so fast!
This song is killing me
I remember when they were so little.
How could they be teenagers all ready?
If only I knew then what I know now ...
I'd play Go Fish with them every dang time they asked
I can't believe I don't have babies anymore
What will I do when Alec is gone
I don't know if I can handle it
They used to love Cheerios.
And Cheerios necklaces.
And it was their favorite snack.
Xavier used to feed Cheerios to his talkingmatron Barney doll
In the high chair
And then he'd reach over and offer him apple juice from his sippy cup
Hold it together, woman
You gotta make it out of this store
You're in this aisle alone right now 
but you know any minute a cart's going to come around the corner
Oh sweet jesus I have to call my husband
No I can do this
No I can't - It's pretty bad
Quick. Snap out of it Snap out of it
Oh my gosh, LOOK!
Froot Loops too
Oh, they used to LOVE Froot Loops necklaces ...
How did it all go by so fast
::hic hic sputter hic hic::

You can't convince me seasonal depression isn't in kahoots with Muzak. 

One of the ways I fight back with that ugly monster SAD who takes advantage of a good, clean living woman like me, is to come up with a form of self-improvement. I treat myself to a new nail polish color, a new lipstick. If it's a particularly bad SAD episode -- it's all out with a new facial exfoliator.

I pushed my cart out of the hysteria inducing Aisle #4 cereal aisle and raced through as safely as I could until I reached my land of milk and honey, Aisle #7, Health and Beauty. I let out a big, deep breath.

As I took my time rolling out lipstick tubes and deciding which would be the color Prozac, my eyes fell upon the shelf on the other side of the aisle. They were promising youthful younger better faster over there.

I slid my shopping cart one section over. It was the hair-dye section. And there was a glorious smirking siren on the box cover beckoning me to come, join her hither, in the land of the avocado and coconut oil sheenness of it all. Ooooh ... she was good.

I picked up the box and put it on top of the Cheerios. Mama had big plans for tonight.

After I was home, groceries unpacked, dinner made, family watching the football game on TV, I took my rectangular sunshine in a box upstairs. Now, my hair color is fine ... it's my eyebrows that I really want to take back to their dark, youthful, lush days. [Exhibit A]

Ladies and Gentlemen: Eyebrow Exhibit A

Yes, I applied Midnight Raven #039 to my eyebrows.

Photo Credit

I know the box says Keep away from eyes.

But there was some Heavy Duty Major League SAD going on.

As my wonderful son, who sat through the ten minute brush-on process with me said in sincere hopes of providing comfort, "it doesn't look as bad in real life as it does in the mirror, Mom."
 
Yeah, Still - I sure could use a village of bloggers right now.
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Oh Taming Insanity

I am as old as the trees, and it's not a bad thing. There's a certain way of living I've adopted in hopes of increasing the odds of not meeting my demise in a less than desirable manner.

It is my pleasure and joy to be sharing those secrets at Taming Insanity's today. I'm speaking to KLZ in her love language -- the Don't Let This Happen To You way of talking.

Because I love the girl, and I'm a softie for a vulnerable mother of a new baby.

Please hop over and congratulate KLZ on baby boy #2, and outsmart the lifeline on your palm at the same time.

Thank you!!

Click here to learn How to Stay Alive

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The One That Got Away

The other day, in a place where I spend entirely too much time *twitter* someone tweeted this out:
Remember that girlfriend that made you do crazy things? Yeah. I miss her.

I tweeted back:
Thanks for making me laugh. Yes. I do. Both. Remember and miss.

The sane and the stable are wonderful; they have their place in the world, and I appreciate the calm and peace they bring. But, oh, a good push you to the brink cray cray girlfriend is someone I wish once in everyone's lifetime.

I was lucky enough to be with one of the craziest girlfriends possible throughout high school, into my days of college, and her days spent as a newly working girl. I met Susie on my first day of high school, during study hall, at an all girl private school. She was a sophomore, I was a freshman. She sat in an empty spot next to me and held her left hand out. "It's my engagement ring," she said to the table. I heard a voice call her liar and tell her that was probably her mother's ring. "Jealous," she said to the air. I remember thinking how first of all, I'd be too scared to take my mother's diamond ring to school; and second, she looked like a girl who could have an engagement ring.

The school was divided into two types: the good girls who were sent there because their parents wanted to keep them good and that meant away from finding out about boys, drugs, and all the in between; and the bad girls who were sent there for almost the same reason: to keep them away from what they had found out about boys, drugs, and all the in between. I was a good girl.

I used to wonder why she plucked me out of the crowd, I was always the girl in the background. That an older girl would take an interest in a frosh was intoxicating to me.

She took my world to a whole other level. I would watch her, listen to her, go anywhere she wanted me to. And laugh. Laugh until my triple layer mascaraed eyelashes would get stuck together from the tears pouring out of my eyes. The more I'd bend over convulsing with laughter, holding my aching side and begging her to stop, the more outrageous she'd become. She performed it all: flawless impersonations of our teachers, ruthless imitations of the current jerk boyfriend, and dead on perfect skank mimics of the tramp that got the bartender we both wanted.

She wasn't the only person in my social circle back then, there were some level headed people peeking in from time to time. Occasionally, one of these dwellers in groundedness would take me aside and ask, What in the world are you doing with her? She's just too much.

Ah, no, she's not too much. I think she's fabulous.

Friday nights would come and she'd drive over to get me, a B-52's cassette playing in the boom box that sat between us in her father's rusty pale yellow Cadillac, and we'd head for the freeway. Black Pat Benatar blazers on, boxy and to our thighs, lips painted matte red, our bangs held six inches straight up in the air with Paul Mitchell hair shellac; our first stop would be the dance clubs.  Two girls on fire with youth, no responsibilities, and a case of Friday night paychecks.

We were glamorous. She made me glamorous.

She was pretty, tall, thin, big eyed and pale. She had hair so dark it might as well have been black and a side profile that I wished was mine. She had more freckles than I'd ever seen on anyone in my life and could slam screwdrivers like a 300 pound meat packer. When she laughed, she sounded like she was five years old.

I can begin to tell you a story about how, at the end of the night, she'd always forget her car's parking brake was on until we'd be driving and the smell of smoke would hit us, she'd open her mouth and out flew the profanity, Sh*t. Damn farkin POS parking brake is GD farkin on again. She swore like a sailor, and my mother, who, by no surprise, was already not a fan of our friendship -- always knew when I had been with her too much, my salty speech giving me away. She thought nothing of spending our last twenty on shrimp cocktail at 2 a.m.

We would slip into our weekend as soon as she punched out on the time clock, and I rushed out of my biology lab. Friday night, when she'd pick me up outside of my campus housing; I could hear her coming down the over parked one way street in front of my shared apartment, boom box blowing the Caddy's doors off with The Scorpion's The Zoo. I'd be standing out in front waiting for her; when she'd see me, she'd start to slow down, but never really stop. She'd lean over and creak the heavy door open and I'd slide in, slamming the fifty pound door behind me with both hands. I'd be with her from then until the sun rose Monday morning. One pre-dawn Monday after dropping me off at 5 a.m., she drove straight to work, parked the Cadillac in the lot there, lay down across the front seat and slept for one hour before starting her job at 7 a.m. I dragged my tired butt across campus to physics class at 7:30, all the while thanking god I had five days in between to rest up before the next time.

For every story I begin to tell about her, there are tens more waiting to be told.

My husband is not a loud laugher. I know when he's having a good time because I see his shoulders shake up and down and his mouth opens up in a quick surprise O, while his eyebrows arch up.

Every story that has ever made my husband's shoulders shake up and down, begins with Did I tell you about the time me and Susie ...

By the end of our twenties, she had married and had children, I had been accepted to graduate school. We went on to live our lives.

Yes, there are sane and normal human beings in the world. And then there are the ones that Katy Perry sings about. The ones that got away.
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*I want to thank the charming Melissa Kirtley from the very versatile A Wide Line. She has bestowed upon me the highly flattering Versatile Blogger Award. I thank you, dear lady, and you've warmed my soul on this blustery January day. xo *Pssst...peeps: you need to check her out. Seriously, always an interesting post.

Yeah. It Hurt A Little.

Months ago, as I sat staring at the dream like photography and honey sweet posts on a blog of a young mom's rural life that I had stumbled onto, I decided to finally send this writer an email, and tell her how much I enjoyed the peek into her simple, self sustaining farm life. Many times, I would be the only commenter on her site, other times I would be one of two or three others.

I didn't say too much, I only mentioned how much I appreciated the beauty and skill of her photography along with the quaint narration of their daily life. I loved the pictures of the rusty red pick up truck they had taken to the farmer's market and brought home sunflowers that she arranged in an old milk pitcher on their vintage barnwood table.

It was all so pretty, gauze-like, and so much more delicate than my own life.

I thanked her for the simplicity of her posts, and told her I admired the peaceful and non material way she and her husband  had chosen to raise their children.

Sometimes I hear back after I send an email like this, sometimes.

Some will respond with a brief, "Thank you! Glad you enjoyed it!" and sometimes the responses back have grown into wonderful ongoing friendships.

But what I received in return to my email this time flattened me.

Stumped me about the human condition. Made me ask what has happened in someone's world that a sincere expression of gratitude for their writing and their blog, results in a reply back like this:

hey alexandra.

so can i tell you that i really don't know how to respond to this?

i started to write a long note about all my struggles as a mom and that i can totally relate to what you wrote and that i have felt the same thing when reading other mom's blogs.

then my husband came by. read over my shoulder and said your e-mail was clearly a joke. or that you mistook me for another blogger because no one reads my blog and if they did, how could they possibly feel that i'm doing everything right. (oh yeah...that's my guy! ;-)

so now i'm kind of confused. and really tired after a long, frustrating day. and i need to go grocery shopping. so i just thought i'd write back and say hi. thanks for your note. i really hope i don't make you depressed. really.

and if my husband is right and your e-mail was a joke...oh well. joke's on me. not the first time and certainly not the last i'm sure.

either way.  hope you had your fun. i'm wishing you all the best...

Socks the breath out of you, doesn't it?

I sent a reply back, apologizing, and assuring her that my admiration was authentic.

I never heard back.

I remember reading a tweet, "if you have a thin skin, 'tis best you steer clear of the internet."

'Tis best to toughen up, too, because this one...yeah, it hurt a little.
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 Photo Source

Sprocket Ink

Sprocket Ink is a site that takes on the latest news in entertainment, politics, lifestyles and technology. Throws it in a blender and serves you smoothies. They're fantastic.

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You'll find it all on Sprocket Ink.

And now you'll find me.  My debut post at Sprocket Ink today, where I marvel at medical history being made by Nick Cannon.

*And didja hear Paris Hilton went brunette? Celebrities...so weird.