Life Support

Today is one of those days you know you’ll regret as a mother. A day when you need a nap but instead stay up searching the Internet for “fire-breathing dragon dream symbology.” Isn’t that a word?

Anyway, I did dream about such a beast. He was flying over my house and actually caught the house on fire.

After reading certain interpretations, allย  of which could be completely false, I think I am in need of either getting my anger in check or am out of balance in my role as mother. Hhhmmm..these sounds vaguely true of me. Boy, does Jung understand me, or what?

The first week of the year ends with great angst and an overly stressed mind and body. Not to mention, five days in a row of migraine headaches. Gee, what a way to begin anew, by being reminded that your old shit is still there and doesn’t just fly in and out on command, like some imaginary mythical creature. By the way, I have solid proof the headaches are in no way myth.

I take a deep breath as I write this, and I look at myself from a bird’s eye view. In need of repair…..the private part of myself. The bookworm. The one who loves nature walks by herself. The one who does dreamy things like paint bottles or refinish a cabinet. The one who writes poetry. The one who wears lipstick for her husband.

She is alive and kicking but working part-time again and spending almost no time alone, have left her on life support. The emergency trucks are coming up around the bend.


Don’t Bogart that Can, Man and Karmic Destiny

Ok, so don’t look so glib, will you? I may not be keeping you around much longer, Amanda. You are sort of crimping my style. I have this other blog, chica, and she is big and bad. Plus, everyone I know reads her. You, on the other hand, only a handful of folks know you are here. So, what gives? What do I do with you for next year?

The thing is, I love both of you. You are my North and South. And, I am somewhere in…Maryland??…living in limbo land.

So, here goes. The end of the year is here, and I am tired. So, so tired. Despite my ability to make light of my life and see the beauty in it and whatnot. I mean, I f….ing LOVE my life. But, so much of the time it feels tiring, and thus, somewhat hard. Which makes me think I need a real yoga guru to show up at my house once a week and kick my behind into shape. Pull out that can, Bikram.

OK, seriously now. I had a tarot reading on my birthday, and the cards revealed I am to discard anything that doesn’t work in my life. Hhhhmmmm….? Excuse me? Did you say, “anything that doesn’t work in my life?” Ah-hun.

Despite the screaming ridiculousness of this reading, I have been combing through habits of mine that aren’t helping me fulfill my karmic destiny. Or some shit like that. I mean, I am serious about this shit, OK?

In short, I will be burning down the house to find out what is gunking up the works. Or, at least starting a small fire in a few corners of it. I want to be new. And, shiny. And, greater than I am.

Train Stop

Hi, there. Well, I decided if you want to know what 39 feels like, read my other blog. ๐Ÿ™‚ It says it all.

What I am doing here tonight is feeling crappy. Feeling crappy inside my body with a migraine and serious neck pain. Who cares about all of that? No one wants to read that crap.

Tonight the word is crap. A student used this word in one our class discussions this week. When I explained to her this was inappropriate, she was shocked. How could that be? I thought it was fine, she wrote. Obviously. Hence the message to keep your f….ing trap shut when writing for decent people, including someone who is going to be GRADING you. ๐Ÿ™‚

So, one thing I’ve decided recently is that I truly like John Mayer sometimes, at least the slow, love songs or strumming anxious ones.ย  And, I even like Dave Matthews sometimes. My husband would be somewhat horrified if he knew I were stating this to others. But, I don’t care. I love cheesy pop music as much as the next girl. Even The Fray, man. Totally. Who doesn’t want to hear a guy on a piano with an intense, husky, soft voice?

“Stop This Train,” John Mayer is telling me through the cyber lines of communication. Yeah, OK. 39 sucks ASS. I f….ing can’t stand getting older, even though I love it beyond belief. Beyond all wonder and rational thought. It’s beauty and grace and separation from the b.s. in life. That’s what it is.

I’ll never stop this train, so I am going to enjoy the ride. Good night, Annie.

Thump, Thump..Is this Thing On?

Dusting off sleeves, clearing throat, and recognizing small hole in stomach the size of Kansas, or a Kansas cornfield – the kind it takes six hours to drive through. Wiping windshield…are you there? Any of you? I’ve been gone a little bit. Thought I wouldn’t write in this blog again, but alas, here I am. Did I show up in time, or is this party over?

I had a pretty cool Thanksgiving, but I hate those big family get-togethers. I mean, hate is a strong word. I just don’t enjoy them A LOT. I don’t even like eating mass amounts of food. Or seeing relatives who annoy me. Put on frozen smile, feel feet, hold child. OK. I can talk to you after all. That’s what goes through my head. But, WHO are you? I mean….I am supposed to know you and somehow you are in my family because you know my husband. And, we’ve mutually agreed to share some turkey and stiff anecdotes year after year.

OK. Enough of all that. I’ve been sewing. Yes. Sewing. Not writing as much so I can sew. Most unfortunately, I am teaching a class again as well. While I love teaching, it does add to the Kansas cornfield expanding in my belly. If I stop drinking water, will it shrink?

I just wanted to say that I am still here, really. Keep a seat warm for me. I’ll be writing about turning 39 soon – the “real” version.

Wouldn’t it be Nice? (Yes, this is an obvious Beach Boys reference.)

Every so often, I swear off blogging. I decide it’s ridiculous and self-centered. That, my life, although valuable and meaningful, should not be on display for “just anyone” to read about. I’ve also started ending sentences with prepositions. I hope you don’t mind.

Nonetheless, it’s typically these moments of swearing off my blogs that I end up writing furiously in both of them. At these times, I am compelled more than ever to say the hell with it.

Waxing and waning is such an exhausting part of life. As a woman, it seems we are destined to wax on and then wax off whatever it is we just waxed on. Whether it be make-up, an impulsive decision to cut bangs, a decision to join a book club, or a luncheon invitation with someone we don’t know well.

Let’s not do anything. This way, we can live freely. We can never have to go back and forth about our decisions, our hair colors, our choices in men, or our decision to have children. Wouldn’t that be easy?

Runaway Train

Why is it that I seem to be the crankiest on days when my husband is home with us. It never ceases to amaze me what a grump I can be on these treasured days.

I know there is a lot of pent-up stuff from the days when he isn’t around, but for God’s sakes, wouldn’t I be able to relax and let all that go? What is my problem?

I also find, unfortunately, that I have a tendency to think I do everything better than he does. I know what our son needs and wants. I know what kind of food and how much, how often, etc. I know how to clean the kitchen counters more thoroughly and sweep every crumb up off the fake hardwood floor. I even know how to grocery shop more efficiently. Why wouldn’t you go to produce first, even if it’s in the corner of the market? You get the picture. I hope there’s someone else out there relating to this, but if not, now you know what an uptight idiot I can be.

In moments when I am either being a serious Crank or a Know-it-ALL, I often realize my emotional state. But, I am on this fast-moving train that is running off the tracks with or without me on board. It doesn’t care that niceness is more pleasant for everyone or that not having things perfect is perfectly OK. It wants what it wants. A dirty, giant, steel beast.

Somehow, just talking about it with you lets off some steam. Take me off the stove; I can cool down now. Just in time to take a hot bath.

Who is that Masked Woman?

I am tired right now. Caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror while preparing to bathe my son. I couldn’t believe what I saw. Half my face was mannequin-like, stiff and dead with the eyebrow cocked a bit towards my forehead, like it would raise itself if it could just summon the will. The other half of my face isn’t important. It was the stiff, cardboard half that has me concerned.

Who is that part of me?

Ironically, I was having a great time with my son before his bath. He likes to crawl on me sometimes as I lay on the floor. And, I think it’s incredibly sweet. He’s one by the way, so it isn’t anything creepy. In fact, I had a flash of the first moment he was presented to me after his birth – a bloody, wet ball with piercing, strangely present eyes.

So…is part of me just dead wood by nightfall? Am I turning into a zombie? It would be appropriate given the Halloween holiday tomorrow. But, Amanda Moon is no hollow soul, yo. She is vibrant, alive, fun, callus, hard, cold, cynical….Ok, Ok, I get the point.

All I want to say is, I don’t know that masked woman.