Archives For Not Fitting In

My Origin Story

November 10, 2015 — 117 Comments

subwayc-couple-kissing-nyc-c-1987

 

If I go back to the beginning, if I start all the way back…

maybe I can figure myself out.

 

—–

 

I wasn’t always the *happening* chick you see on social media. I was a skinny unattractive nerd, a white outcast in an all-black neighborhood who got her ass kicked on the regular.

I grew up on Staten Island –  The Land That Time Forgot. It’s the only borough the New York subway system doesn’t run through, and this isolation from civilization has turned it into a caricature of itself. The amount of hairspray used on Staten Island is solely responsible for the hole in the ozone.

It also houses the world’s largest dump. A metaphor if there ever was one.

 

I grew up in one of the worst housing projects in all of New York City – The Stapleton Projects. My mom was a widow with six kids, and we were poor as fuck.

Fuck you, we had an elephant.

But fuck you, we had an elephant.

 

Mom did the best she could raising the six of us, and that best included beating the snot out of us. I got my ass beat inside and outside the house, so I suppose my childhood wasn’t very safe. I wasn’t aware of it then. Who has time to process psychobabble when you’re scrambling around, dodging beatings?

I do know that my mother’s approval was sacred to me, and I never got it. Nor any attention, unless it was at the receiving end of her fist.

This was how I began to mistake abuse for love. This was how I learned that if I just tried hard enough, if I did better, was better, I could make abusive people love me. 

 

You know how kids just LOVE hearing about their parents’ childhood?

Little Dude’s favorite anecdote of mine?

The time I was walking down the dark, dank staircase in my building. I was 7. I grabbed the railing, and felt something furry and warm. There, sticking up out of the banister at the foot of the stairs, was a dead cat’s bloody dismembered head. Still warm.

Ah, memories…

 

Stapleton was made famous as the birthplace of the Wu-Tang Clan. They went to school with me and NO I DO NOT KNOW THEM.

Wu-Tang was a gangsta rap group, back in the day when gangsta rap meant you had a prison tattoo and an unlicensed gun, not a trust fund and a beach house. I was a flat chested nerdy ginger growing up in a gangsta rap video.

Pippi Longstocking meets Ghostface Killah.

 

I grew up confused. I possessed a white-hot rage, but a desperate desire to love and be loved. I had a profound appreciation for the underdog, and a project girl’s survival instinct. If you fuck with me, or my kid, I will Take You Down. My Stapleton instincts have quelled some, but not entirely. You can take the girl outta the projects, BUT.

 

 

 

As I kid I was desperate to find an escape and an outlet. So I read. Constantly, because we were poor and books were available. And I wrote stories, to make sense of the world around me.

At 9, I tried to wrap my brain around “A Wrinkle In Time,” a masterpiece of Inter-dimensional time travel and quantum physics. This book twisted my mind up to where 39 years later, it has still not fully recovered.

 

I came from a family of overachieving geniuses. Five brothers, all brilliant, all musicians. My older brothers gave me an invaluable education in every genre of music.

And then-

In one of the true defining moments of my life, my older brother put a copy of Patti Smith’s debut single “Hey Joe,” into my 11-year-old hands.

Patti Smith. Skinny, brainy, gangly, unpopular.

patti

 

In the 1970’s, Patti Smith put her poetry to punk music and was eventually crowned Godmother of Punk.

The B side of her first single is “Piss Factory,” an ode to New Jersey factory work, and the experience of getting her head shoved into the toilet by the other workers.

 

She became my idol. Patti Smith gave me hope that I could escape, and reinvent myself somewhere. Someday.

 

The only public transportation to get to Manhattan is via the Staten Island Ferry, which is like the Love Boat – only when you get off, you automatically have herpes.  When I was growing up, the ferry was seedy and dilapidated. It sells beer and used to allow cigarette smoking, so at 2 am on a Saturday night, it was filled with homeless people and drunken degenerates.

The summer of 1982, I was going on 13 and about to enter high school. I fell in with a group of older kids and we starting taking that sordid ferry into Manhattan, the gritty, grimy, pre-gentrified graffiti-ridden city of the 80’s.

The Village was our playground. We bought loose joints and hung out with street musicians. We carried a boom box the size of a suitcase and blasted it as we roamed downtown.

We had a THEME SONG (don’t judge):

 

The following summer I enrolled in a New York City program that allowed poor slum kids to obtain their working papers at 13.

My first job – The Public Library.

The library owned every banned book – but did not circulate them. All illicit books were sequestered away in a super-duper top-secret file cabinet with a big-ass sign labeling it “Banned Books.” I cleverly unearthed these nuggets of literary rebellion.

And read every motherfucker in that file.

 

I discovered On the Road, an American classic of crazy adventure and freedom, and riddled with drugs, jazz, drugs, sex, and drugs.

I tore through Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs.

Naked Lunch? This isn’t a novel; it’s a twisted series of disturbing, drug ridden, sexually explicit vignettes. Burroughs wrote it while living in Tangiers, in a one-room apartment above a male whorehouse, strung out on smack and male prostitutes.

This was the shit I was feeding my 13 year old brain.

Are things starting to come together?

I THOUGHT THEY MIGHT.

 

We finally moved when I was in high school. Were you hoping for the happy ending?

Not. So. Fast.

Back in those days, if you were “bright,” you got “skipped” so I was 2 years younger than most kids in my grade. Get the picture? No more scary gangsta projects.

Instead, we’re talking TRAINING BRA in the GYM LOCKER ROOM. I think my pal Ghostface Killah did less damage to my psyche.

So, to heal all those psychic hits on my ego? I read. I listened to music. I wrote.

And I planned my escape.

 

I eventually got out of the projects when I left for college. The very first summer, I decided I would stay in my college town instead of going home for the summer. What was there for me?

 

I never went home again.

 

 

If I go back to the beginning, if I start all the way back

maybe I can figure it out…

 

To be continued. 

 

Have you ever tried to figure out how you came to be who you are? 
Tell me about your childhood. 
Talk to me. I’m listening.

slut

 

 

I may incite the rage of many people, in this day of sexual harassment, objectification of women and rape culture. But I’m going to say it.

I’M A SLUTTY WHORE. 

Jarring? Perhaps. If you don’t feel something when I write, then I’m doing it wrong.

 

Is it bad to be a slutty whore? When did that happen?

I thought that whole stifled sexuality thing went out in the 50’s. By 1969, wanton Woodstock nymphos were taking on bushy haired bohemians two at a time in the mud at Yasgur’s farm, urged on by Country Joe and the Fish.

He spelled out F-U-C-K to the crowd. They did it.

They just don't make rock festivals like they used to

They just don’t make rock festivals like they used to

 

They were slutty whores.

I love being a slutty whore.  Not being labeled one by others.

ON MY TERMS.

The words “slut” and “whore” are aggressive. But I will not let society control me with the use of these words.

Being labeled “slutty whore” by others is abhorrent. In a patriarchal society, there is an inherent danger in these words. Because these words support Rape Culture. Blaming the victim is the dark side of the American Way.

There are compelling reasons to support sensitivity around the use of these words; why feminists fight against the use of these words.

Sexual harassment is UGLY. Objectifying women is UGLY.

.

Still, I’M A SLUTTY WHORE.

And simultaneously, a card carrying feminist.

I’m wholly independent, and always have been. I’ve supported myself since I was 16 years old, and support a child as well. On my own.

If that’s not female empowerment, in a world where not only are women competing against men for jobs, but where we are all competing in a global environment for gainful employment, than nothing is.

 

I’m not always a slutty whore. In this moment, I’m in a thick fluffy purple bathrobe and slippers.

I’ve just fed Little Dude homemade chocolate chip cookies and milk, and he’s doing his homework while I write. I’m in full-on Mom Mode.

bathrobe-cocktails 2

Homework really fucks with Mama’s cocktail hour

 

But later on, tonight maybe? Will I be a slutty whore?

Hopefully.

 

There are many situations in which being a slutty whore is a positive thing.

1. In Bed with Your Man (or Woman)

Here is where you should be the sluttiest whore you can. This is a key component to sheet ripping sex.

If you love the person, all the better. Extra credit if you’re married. Triple extra credit if you’ve been married 10 years or more.

Can you imagine couples married for 20 years with enough fire in the relationship for the wife to want to be a slutty whore in bed? That’s extraordinary. It’s a 2-decade hot and heavy romance, and that is PURE GOLD.

 

2. Going Out/Escaping Real Life

When I was in my 20’s, I went out clubbing in New York all the time, and yes, I frequently dressed like a slutty whore. That’s what your 20’s are for.

These days, I’m a working mom. I’m in total denial about my age, which is somewhere between 30 and none of your business. I rarely go out, and when I do, Saturday nights at Applebee’s is not the forum for a slutty outfit.

BUT – don’t we all, even just once in a great while, need to put on a costume and play at being something we’re not? Don’t we all occasionally need that brief respite from being a Parent and a Grown Up and a Super Responsible Human Being?

Last December, I saw Patti Smith perform at a club in New York. I was meeting up with college friends I hadn’t seen in 22 years.

I went all out and dressed goddamned slutty to pay homage to my High Priestess of Rock.

I wore black, skin-tight, low-cut clothing and high-heeled, over the knee black boots.

THESE BOOTS WERE NOT MADE FOR WALKING

These boots were NOT made for walking

 

Little Dude actually blocked the door.

“MOM! You can’t leave here LOOKING like that!”

It was the first time he’d ever seen Mama look like a rap video ho, and he did not like it one bit. He’s fine, now that I’m back in the fuzzy bathrobe. Hopefully, he hasn’t been scarred for life.

 

3. Shopping For Lingerie.

My college BFF fought a brutal battle against breast cancer. An entire year of pure torture. But she fought like an amazon warrior. She recently had her reconstruction done, and we went online and ordered a cornucopia of bras. A lot of them were super charged, high octane slutty bras that say,

“HELLO, WORLD. CHECK THESE PUPPIES OUT. I’M ALIVE, AND I’M HERE.”

Because if ever a woman needs to feel that way, it’s her after what she endured this past year.

Her boobs will damn sure be saying "Hello!"

Her boobs will damn sure be saying “Hello!”

 

4. Writing.

I’m not talking about writing erotica (although by all means, do. Whatever tickles your pickle.) I’m talking about using those words when you write.

“Slutty whore” is an incredibly evocative phrase. When you write, “I was such a slutty whore when I was in high school,” we know JUST the girl you were.

Words inform the mind.

They thrill and excite, kindle the flame, affect as powerfully as physical actions.

Wordplay is life. Handle with care, but USE them.

 

5. Out With the Girls

It’s like African Americans using the N-word. Outside the community, it’s a racial slur. Inside the community, it’s an expression of solidarity. My girlfriends and I have reclaimed those words, and if we want to banter with them, by God, we will.

They’re multiple meaning words. We can use them to express appreciation or dismay. For example:

“Ooh! Where did you get THOSE, you whore?” might be said to my girlfriend who has on the perfect pair of stiletto ankle boots.

“WHORE!” I might say to the same girlfriend, when she shows up 30 minutes late for coffee.

Any excuse to use a Regina George reference.

 

To use these terms pejoratively is one thing.

But to describe yourself that way in a celebration of your own uninhibited freedom;

to rejoice in the escape from your everyday world of work/mom/PTO drudgery;

to bond with friends in an exclusive language that allow you to metaphorically take back the night;

to be evocative with words; words – the lifeline that connects this cherished community online comrades;

Right now, I’m not a slutty whore.

I’m a writer.  And I want to know how you feel about those words. 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

fight

Not just ANY dance mom.

She was a “DefCon One, Maximum Readiness” Dance Mom.

(DefCon One is actually the highest level, NOT five as is commonly thought. I check these things here because in the wee hours of the night, I worry for our nation’s safety.)

You’re welcome.

This species can be identified by copious amounts of makeup, an overabundance of cleavage, high heels completely unsuitable for dashing around backstage, and clothes flashing enough bling to give you a cluster headache.

They’re the ones timing, in seconds, the amount of time their kid has dancing front row center.

And keep records of how much this is in comparison to the other dancers.

 

_G3R3689.tif

I WISH I was kidding about this

 

Little Dude studies Hip Hop dance.

I got tired of him “break his neck” dancing in my family room, so I suggested a class.

Out went basketball, in came dance.

I struggled with that a bit.

We have a basketball hoop in our driveway, and I ENJOYED the 12 inch height advantage playing hoops with him.

 

I don’t cut it as a dance mom. (Did I even have to write that?)

It’s not just that the typical dance mom is as annoying as a painful rectal itch.

I work; often, during the same hours he takes classes.

I can’t sit in the studio, glued to a monitor, salivating over his every move.

Even when I can, I don’t. I HAVE SHIT TO DO.

I have no interest in living vicariously through him.

It’s enough I’ve given him a permanent twitch I’m über invested in him academically.

I harbor no delusions that he’s going to MAKE it on Broadway.

 

I don’t even know these batshit-crazy whooty-whore Dance Moms.

Someone else drops him off. And when I pick him up, the last thing I want to do is make small talk with a Dance Mom.

It’s like interacting with an endless loop about finding good help, and how her bikini wax burned her beef curtains.

It’s not that I find them Loathsome and Soulless.

It’s that they ARE.

So, I wait in the car.

 

 

The recital was this past Saturday.

Before I describe THAT debacle, you need the proper context.

The school is run by 2 frazzled overwhelmed employees, and the only 3 other women in the county besides me who aren’t married to wealthy men.

Working to offset the exorbitant cost is slightly less painful than selling a kidney.

 

They men actually walk around in these shirts.

The men actually walk around in these shirts.

 

They’re so understaffed that every event – Picture Day. Dress Rehearsal. The Recital – is a giant cluster of FUCK.

Recital Day, we have to be at the theatre at 9 am. Yes, 9 in the AM because there are FORTY FIVE dance routines.

My kid blasted Avicii the whole 45 minute drive to the recital and I let him, even though on two hours of sleep my head was pounding and I was feeling stabby.

 

The dance school can’t just use a high school gymnasium. No, they rent out an 1800-seat theater.

NOTHING is too good for these little darlings.

NOTHING is too good for these little darlings.

 

YES. And it’s at least 3/4 full.

So, CHAOS.

I get Little Dude checked in back stage.

Because I’m not really part of the clique, I’m always greeted with a “where the FUCK did this skinny bitch come from” look by the other moms.

 

I find my seat, which is with my Ex and his sister and her husband.

My Ex has that “restraining order” look in his eyes.

I start live tweeting the entire event, just to relieve my anxiety.

 

I’m sitting exactly 92 seconds when my bag mysteriously falls onto the floor, which is a superpower I have.

Making objects that appear firmly planted just plunge to the ground.

It over turns, dumping the contents everywhere, and knocking over my can of Red bull, which spills and gets my phone SOAKED.

OMG WE ARE NOW IN HIGH ALERT BECAUSE IF I CAN’T LIVE TWEET THROUGH THIS WHOLE MOTHERFUCKER I WILL SURELY DIE.

I stuff all manner of wet objects back into my wet purse and the old dude sitting next to me graciously helps me.

I wipe my phone frantically on my shirt; it appears to be still working.

Thank God.

 

Now I get to sit through HOURS of watching other people’s kids dance.

This might not have been so excruciating if the elderly gentleman hadn’t decided that since he retrieved wet tampons from the floor for me, he is now my  BFF.

He was a Nudger. He kept nudging me whenever he found something entertaining.

I kinda would rather have a tire hung around my neck, filled with gasoline and set on fire than be continuously nudged by an Old Dude over other people’s kids.

 

It’s adorable when 5 2-year olds who HAVE NO EARTHLY CLUE what they’re doing get led onto an enormous stage in front of a trazillion strangers. 

3 of them started crying full throttle melt down.

crying-ballerina

I almost started crying like this out of sheer boredom.

 

I speak toddler. They were clearly saying:

“I want my mommy, this fucking tutu is scratchy, why I am being paraded out here like an organ grinder’s monkey, where is MOMMY, my vagina is itchy, okay that feels better now, what is UP with this goddamn tutu, MOMMY!”

And then one who was standing there dazed, like she just hotboxed some good weed, all of a sudden came to, and starting jerking her hands and feet in a frenzy.

It was FRIGHTENING.

I don’t think 2 year olds can have strokes, but that’s what it looked like.

 

I had to help Little Dude do his one costume change.

The boy’s dressing room is not the bedlam the girl’s is, so it went smoothly.

Besides the part where I held some strange boy’s head while he nerve- barfed into a garbage pail.

 

I headed back to my seat and remembered we were going out to lunch afterwards. (The Ex was lobbying for Hooters).

I’d left the house in a rush, and looked like a bushpig.

I wanted to get myself together a little.

So I darted into the girls dressing room to put on some lipgloss and comb my hair.

It was complete pandemonium.

The Dance Moms were flapping the fuck out.

I just needed to secure 4 square inches of mirror.

Before you could say ‘jazz hands,’ that DefCon One Dance Mom was giving me the stink eye.

“This is where Kerry is,” she said, self importantly.

She had an entire counter filled with giant tackleboxes holding dance recital accoutrement.

I smiled pleasantly.

“I just need this little spot for a minute.”

“But this is where KERRY is,” she repeated. Loudly. And – ominously.

“Look, lady – I’m sorry I don’t know Kerry, and worship her suitably, as befits her eventual illustrious contribution to the dance world.

But I need 4 square inches and I’m OUT.”

 

She turned purplish and barked at me,

“Well, I’m telling Joellen (the owner of the studio) about this!

“Really? Well, you could fill a ROOM with how much shit I don’t give, you cock mongling queefburger,” (I thought).

And then I STABBED. HER. TO. DEATH.

 

Okay. Not really. But I wanted to.

 

As the show progressed, I became increasingly more disturbed by the costumes, makeup and dance moves for the hip hop routines.

It’s safe to say, I’m no prude.

But I fail to see the connection between hip hop dance, and dressing up 12-year-old girls like Miami hookers.

Do they need to wear so much makeup they look like prostitots? Some of the “costumes” amounted to no more than glittery lingerie.

And in case the lack of clothing didn’t sexualize them enough, the only thing the  choreographed “moves” were missing was a stripper pole.

These 7 year olds have more on then the girls in the recital.

These 7 year olds look conservative compared to what I saw.

 

It got me to wondering if this is a contributing factor to the massive promiscuity among high schoolers in my area.

As I tweeted my distaste for these little girl’s attire and gyrations,

Gretchen tweeted another disturbing thought; that this was “a pedophile’s Disneyland.”

Ugh.

I don’t even want to think about that.

 

The bottom line:

WHITE PEOPLE HAVE DESTROYED HIP HOP.

It used to mean something. The lyrics and the beats spoke politically and relevantly of a generation that was lost, in a way that the lost generation could relate to.

It was taken over by white corporate America which released garbage that’s palatable to the white ear.

It became commercialized and watered down.

More easily digestible for white teenagers who wanted to feel cool.

Increasingly focused on materialism and posturing.

Granted, this had always inflected the genre but hadn’t totally defined it.

From there, it was only a pop-and-lock away from the suburban dance studios.

 

I know putting my kid in these classes makes ME a part of the problem.

I’ve let his joy in these classes eclipse any politics I have about the mainstreaming of hip hop music.

 

The truth is, once hip hop became a staple in suburban dance schools across America, it was no longer relevant.

Hip hop has become a reason to have 12 year old suburban girls grind onstage in stripper outfits. 

I’m so relieved I have a son.

 

Who, by the way,  rocked that shiz like frozen crazy!

 

 

Okay, I didn’t REALLY kill a dance mom. The only thing that has died is hip hop’s relevancy.

 

However, next year? I’m bringing Beth with me. She tweeted that she was right behind me with a shiv, if I needed back up.

And that’s friendship.

 

Do you have to deal with Dance Moms? Or overbearing parents in general?
Am I the only one who finds these hip hop routines/costumes disturbing?
Does anyone else check for nuclear safety? 
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

Broken Heart

Dear Anonymous:

You reached a new low this weekend – trying to contaminate my quiet day of mourning for a dead girl.

Telling me it was too bad it wasn’t ME that died instead of a writer I worshipped and was lucky enough to spend a joyous, incredible summer with.

What exactly is UP with the hate mail?

Are you trying to intimidate me?

Look, I’m no Sarah Connor, cinematic badass and pullup queen extraordinaire.

sarah-connors-o

root of my pullup obsession

But it’s going to take more than emails to get drive me off WordPress.

 

It’s actually the height of irony that I AM in fact, still alive.

I grew up in one three white families in one of the shittiest housing projects of the five boroughs of New York City.

Which, to quote Wu Tang, “Ain’t Nuthing Ta F’Wit.”

There were three reasons to stop playing outside:

1. Your mama called

2. Outside lights came on

3. Gunshots

A bullet to the knee cap really fucked up a Skelly game.

skelly

bottle cap game played by inner city kids

 

So, guns and death threats don’t particularly scare me.

I find it amusing when people cross the street simply because a large African American man is headed their way.

You know who’s really scary? Not Leroy.

Leroy’s FUCKING WIFE.

When he gets home and she starts in with that NECK ROLL, and SUCKS HER TEETH at him, in that way that only black (and Dominican) chicks do really well, and gets up in his grill,

“Motherfucka, you jumped a turnstile for WHAT? To brang me this cold fish dinner?!”

Leroy starts quaking in his green Osiris. True that.

Yeah, I could jump a turnstile back in the day

Yeah, I could jump a turnstile back in the day

 

And those fierce black housing project princesses used to chase me down and beat me up every day. Because I was what? Skinny? Nerdy? White?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

They’d lean over their desks in those nasty portable classrooms that were NEVER warm in the winter, and mouth at me “just let me get you.”

At 3:00 I’d RUN. Or try and find one of my brothers.

Usually, they’d be getting their asses beat, too. We’d get home and brag about who got beat up the worst.

 

In college, I didn’t start off roommates with my BFF freshman year.

She was a tough-ass housing project girl from the South Bronx who knew cinder block and gun play.

We had lame Midwestern girls for roommates, girls who listened to Milli Vanilli and used sanitary napkins instead of tampons, for fuck’s sake.

We met at a dorm social. And when we locked eyes, we were like Tony and Maria in West Side Story.

Every one else fell away. We murdered those lame bitches asked for a transfer and moved in with each other.

And we played Russian Roulette with our lives on a regular basis.

Why should we finance Greyhound when we could just stick our thumbs out on the Major Deegan Expressway in the Bronx and hitch hike back to school?

Jump in a van filled with five guys? Yay! We got ourselves “The Real World!”

“This is the true story of seven strangers picked to drive COMPLETELY DRUNK in a van…

…Find out what happens when they do hallucinogenics and break out into a game of quiddich.”

We’d get them to drive us straight to our town – to our door.

And invite them IN. Where they’d stay, sometimes for DAYS.

 

Once, we got into a car with a cowboy from Montana.

We’re somewhere on Route 80, and Cletus McPigFucker very nonchalantly reached under his seat.

And pulled out a shotgun, placed it on the dashboard, and continued to chat with us. While he stroked his gun, like a penis.

Or a dog.

Or a penis.

We took off running at the next rest stop, hopping over the guard rails and bushwacking through the high grass.

For the rest of my life, I will remember the sight of my BFF running like an escaped convict, high jumping the guard rails.

 

At least when I got jumped on the platform of the D train, I could SEE who my opponents were.

One brother held me while the other put a knife to my throat and snatched a gold chain off my neck.

I don’t know what would have happened next if my Guardian Angels hadn’t saved me.

Not the spiritual Deep-pockets Chopra kind, the Curtis Sliwa kind.

Rocking the whole uniform; the beret, the red jacket over tight white tee with that Guardian Angels logo.

Not my Angels - but they kept NYC subways safe

Not my Angels – but they kept NYC subways safe

 

And I ended up dating one of them, too. But mostly because he was a drummer and because the uniform was HOT.

I wasn’t always so lucky.

Wattie, the lead singer from a death metal hardcore punk thrash band from Scotland- The Exploited – swaggered into the record store near my apartment and invited my fishnet stockings and mini skirt to watch them perform that night, as his guest.

Wattie in the men's room (none of your business)

Wattie in the men’s room (none of your business)

 

So, I brought Lisa, my coke dealer Harold’s 16-year-old girlfriend, who I was stuck babysitting, while he did coke

Unfortunately, we were enraging all the territorial death metal hardcore punk thrash chicks – particularly Lazar, the leader.

A scary creature with upside down crosses tattooed on her face.

How does one get a job with ink like that? Is that not an issue?

And when we left the club, Wattie invited us into the van to continue the party at their hotel. I peeked in – 10 drunken band members and roadies.

Hmmm, this didn’t look like Bay City Rollers Scottish,

this looked like Gang Bang Scottish. We declined the ride, said we’d catch a cab and turned around

To face Lazar and her pack of rabid dog women from hell, who “demanded our leathers” (a British punk thing; they rob your leather jackets),

and then PROCEEDED TO KICK THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF US.

Back then, Doc Martens didn’t come with girly roses on them,

Yeah  - NO

Yeah – NO

They were BLACK and had fucking STEEL in the toe.

We ended up in the hospital with broken ribs, a busted collarbone. a concussion and black eyes.

Harold was pissed.

 

My point is, I’ve been in some actual scary situations.

So, excuse me if my first reaction to your emails is to break out the red pen of my cerebral cortex and start correcting.

What language are you WRITING in? Yellow LEDBETTER?

You don’t seem to know a “you’re” (contraction) from a “your” (possessive pronoun) and my son already knows that. And he’s ten.

Now I totally lost my train of thought

Now I totally lost my train of thought

 

Oh, right-

I’m sorry it bothers you that I have so much to write about. I guess that’s why I’m a Hot Bitch On the Internet.

My blog is my HOME. I’ll write what I please.

If I want to write that I was ass-fucked by Kris Kringle in Macy’s window (34th St side), I will.

You no likey, you no read. Click. That’s what your opposable thumbs are for.

You’ll find they come in handy, once you step down as captain of the “USS WHAT THE FUCK” and do something useful.

Besides hurling CPS threats at me, which are getting as OLD as your snatch hair.

 

Your factually uncluttered hyperbole regarding the details of my life makes me wonder, why me?

You know nothing about ME.

Or about ANYTHING. I’ve been surrounded by YOU by whole life.

Idiots who think they can wax philosophic about Haile Selassie because they know how to tie on a Jamaican flag bandanna as a doo rag between huge bong hits.

 

But really, why ME??

I’m not well known.

I don’t have a huge following.

I’M NOBODY.

I’m a faceless cog pushing a cart in Whole Foods.

I’m a nameless mailbox in the frozen tundra of suburban wasteland with school cancelled yet ANOTHER snow day.

With a sniffily ADHD 10 year old, hopped up on so much Sudafed, he’s Breaking Bad in my family room.

If he doesn’t stop talking through Full House I’m going to have to remove his larynx with a blunt spoon.

I’M NOBODY AT ALL.

Tapping at her computer when I can. My kid just blew his nose and presented me with the contents of his tissue – that was the “Big Event” of the evening.

And the hottest thing that’s happened to me in the last month was getting a lady boner over the fact that Anthony Kiedis is still immensely fuckable at 51.

 

To accuse me of being an “attention whore” is to make no accusation at all. WELCOME TO WORDPRESS.

Aren’t we all spreading our proverbial legs open just for a fix of attention? Isn’t that the point of blogging?

Exactly what is it you want from me??

If you want me to leave, I’m not. Writing is how I breathe.

If you’re trying to get me to not believe in myself, it’s been done already. This is, at best, an amateur effort.

 

I don’t know whether to slap you upside the head, cradle you to my breast…or cook for you.

I suppose,

love you is what I have to do. I just blogged about that, right? That love is the answer.

To do anything else makes me look like a hypocrite.

Love is the the universal force that unites us all.

 

You just make it so damn hard to love you.

 

Deep breath.

 

Regroup.

I know food. I know music.

So, come in. Wipe your feet.

We’re listening to the blues today. If Little Dude wants to play air guitar to “Lonely Boy,” he has to know Muddy Waters.

I hope you like beef stew. There’s enough for all of us

IMG_1391[1]

 

And homemade biscuits. Pull up a chair.

IMG_1399[1]

 

 

Seriously, I got nothing, people.
But you can talk to me. I’m listening.

PLEASE UNFOLLOW ME

February 1, 2014 — 56 Comments

Breaking chain

 

I’m a Buick in the Land Of Lexus.

I started this blog because I don’t fit in where I live.

I ended up, because I did not do my due diligence while house shopping, in an area that is spiritually and culturally barren.

You can read about it, if you’d like. I’d be honored if you did – it was my very first post.

 

I don’t fit in a lot of places, because I’m so many different things all at once, that people have trouble defining me. Which makes them nervous.

They like me. They just don’t get me.

 

I’m here at WordPress because I crave the company of like minded individuals. Brilliant, funny, thought provoking, supportive individuals.

And yes, because I love an extended family.

 

I didn’t write for a very long time.

I forgot that writing is how I breathe. 

How I live. 

And when I post, I bleed.

Here’s a quote from James Altucher that describes how I post:

“Say it with blood. If your blood stops, you have a heart attack. You die. If your blood doesn’t leak onto the page, your post will have a heart attack. It will die.  If you can’t say something with blood, then don’t say it, else it won’t reach the heart.”

 

And this is the picture he used

And this is the picture he used

 

I bleed for myself.

I bleed for YOU.

 

Some days, I want to make you laugh.

Other days, I want to make you feel.

Other days I want to make you think.

Because, and here’s another quote from Mr. Altucher:

“The blogger is the deprogrammer. You have to look at things in a different way.

If you don’t, then go back to being a robot and wait for the next instructions from the mothership.”

 

Kim Kardashian is definitely a robot

Kim Kardashian is definitely a robot

 

But I’m not here to hurt anybody. Never have been. Never will.

After the Amy Glass post – a post that I worked very hard on – a thought provoking, important post (I believe)-

I received a flurry of emails in my inbox. From people thinking I was sending anonymous “hatemail” to another blogger.

Anyone out there in the blogosphere who thinks I am capable of sending “hatemail” to someone I don’t know, have never interacted with, whose blog I have never read, never followed, and who I only wish the best for, as I do for all human beings,

PLEASE UNFOLLOW ME .

RIGHT NOW.

GO TO THE TOP OF THE PAGE, TO THE LITTLE ROUND CIRCLE WITH THE CHECKMARK

AND JUST – UNCHECK IT.

RIGHT NOW.

 

I’m just a woman trying to raise her kid.

Run a business – and a draining one at that. Because I fall in love with too many people, remember? So I adopt every kid I work with.

A woman trying to remember how to BREATHE again.

 

If you can’t tell, through the quality of my writing, that I am far too:

intelligent, kind, educated, spiritual, loving, evolved, soulful and

in a constant state of transformation – always working on being my higher self –

to EVER send anonymous hate mail,

PLEASE UNFOLLOW ME. RIGHT NOW.

 

Remember what I posted the other day?

I am struggling to balance it all. To work, raise a kid, to write, and yes – to get to the gym and do THREE chin ups.

And to do a whole lot of other stuff – I have a myriad of interests.

 

I love yoga and beer so I invented this multitasker

I love yoga and beer so I invented this multitasker

 

I can’t invest time in online drama. Please don’t pull me into it.

DO NOT send me emails diverting my attention to posts I didn’t know existed on blogs I never followed or read.

And frankly – fucking scary posts. That get my heart going.

My son is my heart.

Posts that talk about calling CPS scare me so badly I almost ended up in the fetal position again.

So-

 

PLEASE UNFOLLOW ME.

If you intend to ever involve me in drama again.

Or fail to believe in me. 

Or understand that my intention is

to fall in love with everyone of you.

 

 

It’s a gorgeous Saturday.

Sunny and clear. I think we’ve finally emerged from the Polar Vortex.

I actually have a rare Saturday off.

I’m going to the movies with Little Dude. I’ve turned him into a movie addict, because that’s what you do with children –

you get them to love the things you love, so they can be part of your life. Instead of you ending up with Legos in your nether regions.

That’s why he loves blogs.

Did a light bulb just go off in your head? Good.

aha-moment

 

Our movie theater was completely renovated.

The seats were redone as plush red leather motorized La-Z-Boy recliners – and go all the way back.

These seats are like riding in the luxury car of your DREAMS.

Dreams that excel even Little Dude’s choice for the car he will own when he grows up (at the moment, the new 2014 Chevy Corvette).

Dreams that excel even the Muscle Car of His Dreams (1970 Buick GSX Stage 1; only 400 made)

They’re the Lamborghini of theater seats.

 

Yes - these are the seats.

Yes – these are the seats.

 

We’re going to sit in those magnificent seats

and eat way too much junk food.

I normally don’t allow much junk food (you knew that, didn’t you??) but it’s different at the movies.

We’re going to get popcorn, nachos, Sno-Caps. Maybe even soda, if I’m in a really expansive mood.

And, because they actually installed an ice cream machine inside the movie theater, we’ll get ice cream as well.

When they renovated the theater they went all out.

 

On some days, the movie is really important.

When we went to see “The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty” – I needed to inhale every second of that movie. I loved it.

Today, whatever we see is besides the point.

Today, I just want to be with my son.

It’s the greatest feeling in the world – to have an unanticipated day off.

A “lagniappe” – something special you don’t expect.

Especially when there’s ice cream involved.

 

This is what happens when Little Dude can't make up his mind

This is what happens when Little Dude can’t make up his mind