I’ve been really bad with writing here lately, just been busy. Let’s go with that. I’m working on something good. I mean really really good. But you are just going to have to wait for this headache to subside. In the mean time, let’s talk about other ways to throw MY BROTHER off since he forgot how to use the phone and figures me out through this stupid blog.

1. I’m joining the circus…the Jim Rose Circus that is.
2. I’m having an affair with Dennis Rodman
3. I broke my leg
4. The screen play is done; Jenna Jameson has the star role.
5. I’m moving. …..?
6. I’m going to the Cayman Islands this weekend
7. I’m in love with a man who rubs hot oil all over himself and says things like, “Daddy likes.” (Okay – that grossed me out in a Tom Selleck way)
8. I’m pregnant and am confronting baby’s daddy on national television. Tune in Tuesday morning on CBS 10:00 am central/standard time
9. I’m a body double for Angelina Jolie
10. I’ve been hiding a midget in my closet for the last year and am using him as a sex slave

Call your sister.

I’ve spent the evening on the phone with two friends who feel their lives are train wrecks. This is completely inaccurate. A runaway train is an accident. Them? They’ve jumped in front of the tracks and tied themselves down in front of the speeding engine. The out come was predicted and intellectually understood, yes. But emotionally understood, eh? They decided to take a chance because even when you know, you don’t want to know. How … do I know this? I’ve done it, and so have you. There’s still some completely illogical part of us that believes if you want Superman to show up there has to be someone worth saving.

AHEM!

Let’s face it, love is difficult, it’s not kind. At first it’s like visiting a vacation at the end of your day. You seek out the text message and email haunting your eyes until the words arise then suddenly you’re overcome with delight, cool breezes, and swimming in a sea of Christmas morning delight. Then suddenly you find yourself out of new gifts, unknown conversation, and it’s now time to clean up all the debris and shredded Christmas paper. This feeling is rather like being trapped in a burning house. Your sixth sense kicks in, you can’t see because of the smoke, you can’t yell because your mouth is covered with an oxygen mask, you can’t hear because the fires roar, and you can’t touch because that will be the end of you. I imagine this is what Auntie Em must have felt like when her home, with everything she had known, was swept away in one fierce storm, there was no warning, it swooped right in and engulfed her.

I think Bruce Willis said it best in a series of movies, “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker”

That’s just love, life, and the laughter that fills in the cracks.

And yeah, Yippee-ki-yay, we’re all holding on tight.

Then at that moment I am turning the corner, I become convinced, in a flash of pure truth seeing – it happens every time I loose myself and leave the plans before I can make them. I ask myself, ‘Can you die of happiness, truly?’ Is it possible? Can you at least get sick or make yourself commit to a Sunday afternoon of holding down your couch after a to fun Saturday?

Saturday started out plainly. I had wanted to go for a run and Ronda wanted cheese, friendship, and a glass of wine. At 2pm we sat across from one another catching up on the details of our lives, then she took off to shoot film and me to take a nap. Six hours later I was standing high above Sarah at an outdoor theatre wondering just why we should “wrap ourselves up like fajitas and roll down a hill” The idea, I suppose, was the emotional equivalent to a drug binge. The tossing together of a much disparate and presumably incompatible stimuli was possible, in a short span of twenty minutes, together constituting a sort of socio-familial archaeological bender, ya know – to see what came of it and acting like you are nine instead of twenty-nine. How much of your youth can be brought back, remembered, exploited, excused, laughed at, made known, and brought to the surface showing it’s permanenance while you should be watching the opera at an outdoor theatre with five of your girlfriends?

EVERY WAKING MOMENT.

We laid on our backs listening to operatic voices booming through speakers while surrounding blankets “SHHHHSHD” us and we drew constellations in the sky with our fingers; like ya did camping in the back yard of Mom and Dad’s house when you really were nine.

Turns out, I’m still five years old, in a mini skirt and heels.

Later that evening after a shot or two – well – I’m still twenty-nine.

I just have to say, I love my girls. Happy Birthday Hillary and Courtney

“Clint, meet me at 5:30 – I need my B.F.”

I called ‘Emergency’ a half hour later he and The Professor walked through the front door of the neighborhood Mexican restaurant, took one look at me, and sat down caustically discussing the onslaught of the hang over Wednesday night had brought. I wiped a tear and said, “I have no idea what happened.” The breaks had been pulled, I was listless. My eyes begin to swell and I swallowed hard on a bit of spicy salsa claiming cayenne poisoning while wiping a tear.

“Take my phone,” Clint told me. If you know him, that’s like handing over his Black American Express Card. Unthinkable. But for your best friend? Well, that’s just the kind of guy he is, the man would do that for friend or foe.

Three hours later I walked into “The Office” swarmed by Hillary, Soleil, and Company soon forgetting I had allowed the World to bruise me only hours earlier.

The world deflates and inflates faster than a kid running out the door at the sound of a recess bell. Trees, grass, homes, marriages, jobs, and relationships deflate with the single prick of a pin fizzling out and taking the joy they once brought. Occasionally, they inflate faster than a moment turning into one you’ve committed to memory with out realizing it at the time. Life grips you like that, one moment you’re swimming in a sea of darkness, the next you’re staring at the sky recalling ROY G BIV.

Sunday morning as I drove to my brothers I couldn’t fight the thought that if I simply veered my car off the road into a swing set it would bounce back with the prudence of a Mother Goose tale. Later that day, the sky turned black, the wind picked up, and trees bent over with the velocity of The Wicked Witch on a bender. That was outside the house, inside we were dancing – all eleven family members danced next to dim lighting and smiles. The Toddlers bounced, the Kids did cartwheels, and the Adults were pure silly.

It’s only life after all….and I’m going to Vegas next week.

And now, as I sit here watching Grey’s Anatomy I recall my Father telling me how he held my childhood dog, Gibson, in his arms as she was put to sleep, “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I thought it’s what you would want.” That was only the third time I’ve seen him cry.

I had about managed to keep my jaw from dropping around my ankles while D. turned blue. John, ya – we’ll call him John, was telling me of recent company events. His superior was out of control and needed to be stopped or punished. I could go with the flow - but this was absolutely out of line. This was on par with, say, finding out the president of the United Nations was a sucker for crack whores, the moon was made of green cheese, and the sun only rose in the morning because of this complicated system of levers and dials overseen by an encampment of the master race direct from The Wizard of OZ cast.

“People really do that kind of thing? “

“Happens all the time.”

“I thought it was an old good ‘ol boy legend that had died out with promiscuous sex and creative corporate accounting.”

“No, that’s what the company is known for. It’s expected when the Europeans visit.”

There was another pause, maybe I was supposed to ask what he meant by that, but I didn’t want to know anymore. I didn’t want to picture fathers, uncles, grandfathers, and brothers taking part in such corporate schmoozing. As the silence lengthened I realized the tension level was rising. He is a friend, and the silence I allowed to lay between us made me want to spew Fourbucks all over his Brooks Brother’s shirt and busy tie while his face flushed with ridicule.

“I suppose it’s kind of like schmoozing your clients in Vegas and not having to foot the bill.”

He relaxed as I gulped my Fourbucks and hurried the conversation to G-Rated pastures.

Suppose this type of thing or something similar happens in the world of everyday business. As a society we accept the value of a corporate dollar at the expense of one’s own personal moral system. Let’s face it, indulging in what is forbidden is delicious. The temptation creates passion, the anticipation is thrilling, the heart races, breath quickens, the mind becomes one-pointed, the senses attuned like a wild animal hunting prey – anxiety amount at the thought of being found out, guilt and the giddiness of freedom pump through your temples. These, my friends, are the delicious fruits of the forbidden.

The forbidden is not exactly the same as dangerous. Often the forbidden is perceived as dangerous, but the essence of forbidden is that an authority is imposing a prohibition on the act. The power relationship this sets up strokes our desire to challenge the rules placed upon us. It’s one of the oldest stories told, Adam, Eve, and the Apple.

When something/someone is forbidden as in; the moment a cheaters lips touch another, a scar the shade of crimson blister is etched on one’s core. As a teenager I always wanted to ride a motorcycle and envisioned myself strapping on a helmet as I swung my leg over the side and grabbed the waist of the bulky rider in front of me. My Very Holy Mother would have none of this. She told me a horror story of a high school friend who had died violently after being flung into a tree while riding a bike. I never have ridden a motorcycle and only recently learned this story had been embellished and stolen from a newspaper headline.

What drives us to not take some chances when we see the flares ahead while other times we see the flares and assume they are only speed bumps?Is it fear? Is it listening to your gut? I’ve learned my gut’s wrong. Listening to my gut gets me stuck in a habitual self destructive pattern of revisiting the same issues over and over. My caution, heck – I’ve thrown that to the wind so many times cruise ships now use it for motors. So what is it? The fear of losing everything one has is enough for me.

isn’t anybody editing me?

I’ve just finished watching a GE commercial and decided I really want an Elephant. Not a full blown adult elephant, that’d be too much commitment and rearranging of furniture. Who are we kidding? I’m not ready for that.

LIAR

I’m not usually a very good liar. Whatever I’m thinking shows on my face. I hope this doesn’t play on my face as in, “Hey you Half Wits you’ve put handcuffs on Casper.” I hope I only look dizzy and confused, I certainly feel it. I want an elephant to sit in my heart, my head, and feed peanuts to while it looks at me with kind eyes that lack the brevity of a one night stand and has the endurance of Lance Armstrong during his training days.

So after a mishap, after advising someone, after dancing during the hours I should have been sleeping, after running and a visit to the gym, after dealing with “The Monsters”, after watching The Derby, after all was said and done, I stopped. And realized I really may be the stupidest girl alive.

Saturday morning I picked myself up. More bruises. Oh good. It wasn’t going to be mere high-necked T-shirts this time; I was going to need an all-over bodysuit plus a bag over my head. It had slid in easily through the gaps in the impedimenta (sorry, this stuff brings out the worst in my vocabulary, it’s like every bad novel and hyperbolic myth I’ve ever read crowding round to haunt me in three dimensions) trying to run with me into the rain. But this time I stopped. I’m learning to see things I haven’t seen before. I’m learning to listen to the words of my friends instead of being a stubborn bull on a train to disaster. I’m learning to not settle for less than I give. I’m learning that you should be as good to me, if not bettah, and I should never question where you stand. I’m learning to look out for me, in a twisted way, I’m looking out for you too.

Tired, but alive is going to have to do.

I’ll start making sense again one of these days.

Reagan and I are claiming Mexican and drinking margarita’s tonight.

Have a good weekend and be good to yourself.

How long does sunlight have to touch someone before they realize they’re no longer standing in the shade? What is the algebra equation for the span of time before one feels the effects of sunlight?

Forty. Fifty seconds? A week? A Month? Two Months? A Year? Perhaps Two?

The last several weeks I’ve had problems falling asleep, I’d settle for pretending to sleep if it was close enough to the real thing. Sleep has become of the fair weather type. Every time my heavy, aching eyes close, some scene from the months before shoot into my private inner-eye movie screen. I haven’t felt safe, I’ve felt as though something awful was going to happen. No. I felt as if the thing I most dreaded had arrived and reared it’s ugly head then retreated. It wasn’t death, it was me. I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid of me.

As little as two months ago I’d thought that finding out I might be single for quite some time was assuring and comforting simultaneously, albeit a cruel joke. Now, there’s a part of my close sisterhood (Celeste and Kim) we refer to as “The Monster”. The MONSTER rears her head after a drink to many making me realize this kind of fun, isn’t so bad after all and nowhere close to the scariest thing I can imagine. The result? Fizz and seethe then blow the top of your head off. I now know harboring those fears of singlehood are about as powerful as the kitchen bomb every kid has to make once or twice to blow popcorn at her friends. Ordinary madness would be like dating one of my last ex-boyfriends, B-O-R-I-N-G.

So imagine my surprise, the last few nights I’ve found my head hitting the pillow and waking 7 hours later with lapses of time involving strange dreams. I dreamt of memories and those yet to make. One in particular is haunting. I was sitting on the porch in the hills of western P.A. It was night. I could hear behind me the ping of a car’s engine as it cooled. It was a beautiful night. I was glad to be there. But I could tell, my life was about to change, irreversibly. Irreparably. Instead of sensing a change, in my dream, I heard a light step rustling in leaves. I turned in amazement to see my Grandmother walking up the steps to the porch, and she sat down beside me. There was more gray in her hair than there had been fifteen years ago. She looked worn and discouraged, but she smiled at me as I stared at her disbelievingly.

“I do not have much time, my dear,” she said. “Forgive me. But I had to come when I heard you weeping. When I understood what you wept for.” She picked up my hands – in a gesture very much like my Father’s – and then held them together, as she had done long ago when she taught me how to make the perfect shaped Christmas Star. “Honey, you’re doing fine. The people in your life are telling the truth, listen to them. There is nothing wrong with you except that you grew into your strength all too quickly, and all alone, which is not how it should happen – if it’s any comfort, this is not the first time this has happened this way to someone, and it will not be the last – and yet if it had not happened this way to you, you may not have done all the things you have, partly because the part everyone adores of you would have died.”

In my dream I felt the answer like a bowling ball buffet resting in the pit of my stomach, “Would that have been so bad?” I said trying to keep my voice level.

My Grandmother turned her head to look out towards the trees again reminding me of my Father. She was still holding my hands, “Would it have been so bad?” she said musingly. “I am not the one to answer that, for I am your Grandmother, and I love you. But yes, I think it would have been so bad. What we can do, we must do. We must use what we are given, and we must use it the best we can, however little much or little we have for the task. What you have been given only appears hard to you or you would not have questioned if an early death is possible for you. But my darling, what if there were no one to be your crutches during the difficult times.”

Bitterly my lip quivered, “Grams, which difficult times?”

I waited for her to tell me to pull myself together or to ‘Buck UP’ in the manner my Mother does. Instead she said with mournful eyes, “Yes. There are many difficult times. You already have everything you need.”

We sat there with our hands resting in one another. I was lost in thought about the simplicity of dying and waiting for her to tell me everything would be alright. Instead I heard the pieces of my fragmented self clinging together. Finally I said, “I’d be sorry to never see the sun again.”

Endearingly she looked at me, “Imagine if you never felt the rain again as well. You’re doing just fine.”

I woke at 6:40 A.M. feeling pretty fucking swell.

This past Saturday I threw the day away wrestling my way through boutiques shopping for the very sake of it and later spent the evening getting ready for, well, the very sake of it. I was running late, Kimmay was running later and I needed to get out the door. Having just spent the last hour and a half flat ironing my hair and cautiously applying make up I didn’t have the time to respond to several text messages when one stopped me as I headed out the door. With my purse draped over shoulder it meticulously hit the side of my hip guaranteeing the emergence of a bruise. My arms were filled with lip gloss, camera, bottle of water, and phone when I turned on my heel, dropped everything and did nothing as I watched my contents scatter across the linoleum tile. My heart began to pound and a small lump formed in the pit of my throat with a force that drives men to declare war. My right arm moved up the course of my body stopping to rest on my hip. “Breathe deep,” I was telling myself while the left arm wiped a tear. Bending down and reaching for my phone I replied to his text message.

DAD: “Hi Honey. I love you. Be good to yourself. ”

It’s always the small stuff