Complications of a clever trick

My heart is pounding inside my chest so emphatically that it may burst, become some sort of casualty and crash. There is absolutely no spit inside my mouth and would kill for a drink of something but I simultaneously have to pee so that option seems unappealing with no bathroom to be had. The warm wet wind soaks my hair on one side and hugging my bare legs to my chest hoping my underwear isn’t showing since I have a skirt on.
Am so nervous my teeth are chattering and its summer and not cold. The moonlight and ocean and his smile are too much. Too much to take and I am blinded at midnight. His arm around my waist, face an inch from mine my cheek is turned away and in an instant the chance is lost and longing is the heartache too unbearable to believe.
The next hour is spent wondering why the hell is it so difficult. So difficult to close your eyes and step forward into warmth and adventure. So many bitter regrets get strung out like dandelion seeds in the wind.

down down baby

Is it just a certain age you get to and poof! it all goes to shit? Or looks like shit? Or feels like shit? Is that what a midlife crisis is? I am searching to fill a void I was unaware of its growth within me. It’s like in that movie Death Becomes Her when the one mean lady shoots the other mean lady with some bazooka cannon type gun and she looks down at her pretty red sweater, mascara running and there is just this giant gaping hole, no blood, just a hole there that you can see through. I am transparent in my efforts and that is mostly pitiful. Pitiful because what do I think will really fill it?

I can find things to fill it but is it right to fill it. Is that what becoming a real adult is…recognizing the hole/s you have and just living with it? Metaphorically you can reference holes to mean other things. Like sex. Like words. Like food. Like fresh air. All those things go into holes in my body and don’t seem to make it all fit together. Ew. I know, TMI, right? Well. Sigh. You are reading my blog so turn it down if it’s too loud.

You kind of find that hitch in your giddy up in your late twenties and feel your feet really on the ground in your thirties and now as I approach my forties it seems like it is just this big abyss that will never be crossed and I just look longingly over the edge. Whats in the middle of it anyway? What seems so elusive? Is it nothing? Is that why all of my thoughts seem so circular and pointless? Or am missing the frigging point?

How many metaphors can I pack into one post? Too many, right?

Alright then. Down, down baby, down by the rollercoaster, sweet sweet baby, no place to go.

shake what your mama gave ya

She puts her name on everything. It use to be just her first name all in CAPS. Now its upper and lower case first and last. She has even written on the wall a few times. She collects business cards, carries lots of notebooks and pens in her many purses and pretends to be a teacher impressed with her own heavy burden that must seem important to her. Her long blond hair is constantly twirled, a hold over from her baby days of twirling her hair-first mine until I kept putting her hand on her own head while she nursed. She prefers tight pants and boots and layers and her brothers suit jacket with t-shirts. Her long hair almost touching her butt she begs for music to be put on and dances around singing, shaking her hiney to the music, waving her arms around, posing with toe pointed and arms in the air begging me to slam dance with her. Long strings of letters with no break dot her many notebooks and dry erase board and she asks me if she has spelled any words by accident and she has. We sound them out together and her ability to almost read is magical. She has an evil laugh and unfortunately developed a penchant for slapping her brother in the face. She pouts very professionally taking a couch pillow to the corner on the stairs, where we can all still see her, she lays her head down to sob as though someone close to her has died. The boys comfort her and pat her. I marvel at her ability to make them feels sorry even though she is the one who was terrible. I wonder how that is innate? She has this thing in her that makes you want to be kind to her even when she is being her usual evil alien self. Beauty is powerful but maybe its something deeper. Something some girls possess and others do not. She is open and silly and also shy and needy. I want her to be strong, not needing any man or anyone to make her way. She should wield her own machete and make her own path although arming her makes me nervous. She may grow up to use her power for good and not evil but only time will tell. She measures a successful day in how many people said they like her and who her friends are in contrast to her brother who seems more introspective and takes it more in stride recognizing a shithead and steering clear even if they are popular.

Her beauty makes me worry. Her neediness makes me concerned. Her bright shining heart makes me ache for the pain that will inevitably await her. Maybe, luckily, her blond beauty and bright blue eyes will be enough to disarm her enemies-melting them as they do her father and brother. Her easy laugh now will hopefully grow into a protection of sorts against the mean people that want to tear down a pretty girl.

She shakes what her mama gave her but I wonder what else I am responsible for in this most magical alien.

Running up that hill

I can see my breath and my fingers are tingling cold at the tips gripping the steering wheel my heavy metal station wagon veers around the corner. The early morning almost still night sky is black blue orange and gray the sun fighting to show its face against the winter landscape. Its frosty on the rooftops of slate and shingles glittering mildly, the sparkle struggling to promise a bright day. The high whine of  my engine making me fearful my car is on its last legs or just disappointed to be running to somewhere this early. Maybe it shares my dismay. Few other cars careen around and I can only imagine how sleepy everyone else is as they also dutifully head off to where ever they have to be for money. Slowly my feet and fingers warm and I resign myself to another day. The dreading of the beginning is always the worst, next to the lull in the afternoon that heats up my anticipation of leaving. Time moves at a different rate in the hospital and my hurried demeanor contrasts too sharply against the patients stillness and waiting. Often I am told to slow down, sit down, whats your hurry, why do you walk so fast? I only have one speed at work and blame it directly on my years in food service. Everytime I sit down I remember at least 4 things i have forgotten to do, forgotten ice water, blankets, tissues and full buckets of pee. Watching lab results, vampirically taking blood randomly for specific needs, dolling out pain medication and antihypertensives. Deep breathing and coughing and ambulating and drinking and teaching and blood sugars and diets and procedures and dressing changes the minutes tick off in anticipation of the handoff that will be my ticket back to my rusty bucket of a car that carries me home, again in darkness I can see my breath.

slip slidin away

Obsequious and oily I look down at the floor and then through my eye lashes ahead of me, through the crowd wondering if I should say out loud what I am thinking. I think not and I don’t. It smells like wet rubber, crushed leaves and stale smoke mingled with cheap perfume and I am bumping up against too many people I don’t want to touch. Moderately toothless gals wearing skinny jeans, oversized sweatshirts and frizzy unnaturally colored hair scowl like me looking for their progeny in the milieu. Its loud and there are too many forced smiles catching my gaze and my cheeks are starting to ache smiling back politely. Suppressing the urge to YELL get the fuck out of my way, offspring in hand literally we drag ourselves like cows to slaughter out the back door and into the rain. The back of my neck is cold and damp and I contemplate if I had some sort of accident with the car would the children be injured, how long could I be off work and how much pain would I be in? It seems like a bad plan and its dismissed as quickly as it appears in my brain and I sigh, opening the door, admonishments and warnings of where not to put your god damn muddy feet issued I put the key in and u turn towards home.

Like a bad lover

Fall feels like that person you see sitting on the opposite end of the sofa at a party that looks charming and interesting but as they edge closer you notice they have bad teeth and breathe, touch you when they talk and their hands are all clammy and their clothes are dirty and mismatched. You feel cheated because you missed out on talking to that hot tan person because really, isn’t that kind of thing over with? Warm, tan, easy going? You thought some edge would be cool. Yes, cold. Cold and damp. Fall is like the lover you thought you wanted and when you have them they break dates, stand you up, give you the cold shoulder and are hard to snuggle up to. You find yourself pining away for wearing less clothes even though the colder weather has softened your skin-making it doughy when naked and pale like milk. Longing to bear your shoulders in the sun, that lover you wished for -Fall-blows cold wind down your neck forcing you to steele yourself for something harsher like snow. An inevitable ice that hardens your heart and turns your toes black.

Captain Obvious

The car hums along, away from where I was before and the radio refuses to cooperate and play anything I can sing along to that matches the blank and vacuous mood I seem to be in so early this morning. Yakyakyak. Jocks spew on about gossip, sports-hockey strangely enough. No one ever talks about hockey. Just like nobody says porpoise. Random random random. Houses fly by, plastic bags swim like fish into the trees behind the exhaust of a city bus. Petulant children slowly walk to school like the Baton Death March because its a weekday.

Frustrated by the lack of sufficient tuneage on my radio and unwilling to be disappointed by the selection in the cd player I turn it off and listen to the street. For no good god damned reason it occurs to me that one day, I will die. Like really die. Leave my children and the lives they create. Die and never have sex again. Die and never cook my famously delicious Pig on Pig thing. Die and will probably still wonder if I made a mistake. Die and wonder if I missed every chance. Die and still be bummed about my flabby stomach.

You know, just die. Like dead. Der. Yes,yes, yes. I know, I know, I know. We all die. But wait a second. I’LL DIE. Me. I will, cease to exist eventually. Probably sooner than later considering I am almost 40. I am sure I am at least half way done. Maybe less.

Driving seemed pointless at that point but the person behind me honking pulled me back into now. I drove home a new route, cause I had never driven that way before. I had pie for breakfast which does nothing to thwart my loathing of my flabby stomach but pie tastes good. Pie was right now. Pie seemed like a good idea and on that roll of good ideas I sat down to think of some more.

 

Milk and honey

Being a creature of habit and repetition I tend to read the same books over and over again, listen to the same song over and over again in the car, watch the same movies over and over again, well you get it right? I am tedious.

That being said I think I am at a cross roads having come to the end of something I can not just revisit. I finished school and am now a practicing RN. I say practicing because that is the correct term and the appropriate term. I feel like an amateur in the sense that I have to work at it, am not an artist. You know, that definition of a hobby and a profession? You have to be in the mood for a hobby….blahblahblah. I can’t seem to turn the page on this career thing. Things seemed like in a groove of working it out, making my way, figuring shit out and now, all of a sudden I am forgetting things I totally know, not remembering to do stuff, feeling so overwhelmed I am crying about it and I AM NOT A CRIER. I am more of a shouter and stomper and fit thrower. Crying makes me all squishy and I abhor squishy. Squishy is disgusting.

My feet hit the floor with the best of intentions and usually about 2 hours in I feel like I am running a race I didn’t pay to enter, have no business being in, can’t keep up and it might kill me or someone else. I feel like I walk around with a huge sign on my back saying “LOOK HOW FUCKING STUPID I AM, AREN’T YOU GLAD YOU AREN’T MY PATIENT?” as people walk by and nod their heads in agreement.

Now stop. This is not some pity inducing WOO is me bullcrap. No. Just stop it. Don’t post comments like OH it will get better and I’m sure its not that bad OR WORST OF ALL….HANG IN THERE.

I am in there. Hanging. I think thats the problem. I am walking around on my tiptoes playing beat the clock. There is not enough time in my day to do all the stuff I have to do. Just when I get settled and think I have a moment to collect my thoughts I remember I forgot something else. I take my job seriously and would prefer to have the respect of my peers and not their fear of taking over my patients because of the mess they have to clean up.

I am not use to such a steep learning curve and its freaking me out. School seems like a good preparation. Then orientation is a whole new ball of wax and then poof! they allow you to practice with your own license. With people. That are sick.

I can’t figure out how to stop feeling behind before I even begin. Partly its the new computer things we have to do. I had just sort of learned to balance my day with the old way and then wham! Something new. But that is just like every job now a days. Technology changes and nuances of your job shift around, Maybe I am just not use to having to use my brain so much. All my jobs before were very physical with a sideline of mental organization.

I have spent a lot of time talking to myself lately. In the car, while cleaning up the house, trying to fall asleep to the sounds of harsh accusations inside my head. So, sadly, dear stumbler of the interwebs or misguided friend-rant is over.

Since the battle in my head isn’t getting me anywhere close to the land of milk and honey where things are easy as a summer breeze and I could do all this shit in my sleep I may resort to more physical measures to keep myself in line. That monk in the DaVinci Code may have had a good idea how not to push things over to the side of your mind where they can be ignored and neglected.

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Am so glad you were born

….but really sad you are gone. Happy Birthday Mommie Dearest, her nickname for herself, not mine. I love the picture you let me take of you doing your Cousin It imitation, I love that you knew all the names of the flowers, I love that when I asked you how old I had to be to curse you told me 14 and I could only say shit damn and hell and not at you or Grammy, I love that you were a fab cook who hated to cook, I loved your hair so shiny and pretty, I envied your tiny body and did not realize until late in life it was the result of just never eating, I loved how you doodled when you were on the phone, I loved how you wrote my present lists and left them out in the open cause you could write in shorthand, I loved your sailor foul mouth, I was so proud of how you worked your way up through those corporate steps with only a high school diploma when you were just a secretary, I loved your laugh, You were always fun to shop with as long as it wasn’t vintage stuff, I loved that you thought I was wild and crazy, I loved that you loved me-Best of Everyone.

Impossible

I am reckless and impatient. I am demanding and obstinate. I am quick-tempered and sensitive. I am shy and loud. Mostly I feel undeserving of such love and devotion from these tiny small people I made out of thin air and sex inside my stomach. I abhor a cliche and yet I am one. I adore my children. I adore them recklessly and with abandon. I loathe them at times because its all too much or too tedious or too tiring or too busy or too noisy. They rarely let me sleep but somehow give me peace. They often are ungrateful but kiss me anyway.

I see lots of people around with kids, breeders-we are everywhere. Is it the same for everyone?

Do you remember being a child and wondering at the limits of your parents power? Power over how you feel, what you do and what you don’t do? I think its natural to desire approval and acceptance from your parents and it still feels weird to not have it even be an option. Or rather it can be whatever I want it to be. If there is no yard stick of a job well done, how do you know you are doing it correctly?

Parenting is impossible but solid. Immovable once you are in it.