Wednesday, December 17, 2008


I think I've been worrying too much about my audience to just write. I know we all have an 'audience' we address in our minds when putting pen to paper, but actually having someone really reading these has intimidated me a little.

My goal of starting this blog was to just record my ramblings and those voices in my head, so that I could share them with friends who appear to like this kind of acceptable insanity. So, no guarantees on quality here, or form, or following a single tangent. That wouldn't be me... and if nothing else on this life's journey, I have learned that it is best to simply just be... me.

If you've wandered here by accident, tread lightly; I have big shoulders, but a soft heart often disguised with irony and self-deprecating humor. If you are of the few that actually seek out this blog, then there's little hope for you. :) It's too late. It would be like Michael Jackson seeking to return to his original form. You've already leaped off that bridge... so the least I can do is regale you on your trip to the bottom. And to thank you, for 'getting' me and letting me know that I'm not an island~ Long or not. :)

~and don't be fooled by that bumper sticker; I can't stand to be hated for anything. :)

tr.v. ob·jec·ti·fied, ob·jec·ti·fy·ing, ob·jec·ti·fies
1. To present or regard as an object: 2. To make objective, external, or concrete:

5 Syllable words... or phrases:

  • marilyn monroe

  • wichita, kansas

  • independence day

  • great expectations

  • serendipity

Attending a birthday karaoke gathering in Johnson Cty., KS recently (at an unlikely, but lively dive), I had the opportunity to drop a 5 syllable word~ like a bomb that had long before been ignited, embers awaiting ignition; and (fortunately) the recipient was playful, witty and not overly intoxicated~ at this point. This did not go unnoticed amongst newer friends and we giggled (okay, I giggled; others laughed) about this commentary that thrust me out, once again, from the safe confines of 'the group.' Damn vocab.

It all started when my man and I made our 'colorful' arrival into a rather low key, and a little low brow establishment, sporting Ugly Christmas sweaters from a prior engagement earlier in the evening. (Forgive me my alliterations. They fuel me.) As niceties and greetings were being made with those we were meeting there (some for the first time), a fellow bar lass (and probably a 'regular') started pawing at my sweater and carrying on a little too loudly and too enthusiastically about her affection for my sweater.

It was at this point, (alas) and before I could stop the words from repelling from my tongue, that I asked her if she was 'objectifying me' for my sweater. She surprised me with a quick-witted (yes, I mean those words conjoined,) reasonably sober response (especially for this clientele,) indicating that she was indeed 'cov.e.ting' it. It was great. I was so pleasantly surprised at the banter, as I'm a (non-slutty) whore for wordplay and will throw down anyplace, anytime~ although not always aloud. We both laughed (with each other, as opposed to at each other); and it only became minutely awkward as the evening progressed when she kept announcing her affinity for the sweater with increasing vigor and projecftion, and stroking it (ala moi) upon her treks to, and increasingly from, the bathroom.

I told said newer friend who witnessed this (the only one who will publicly admit to following these musings), that 'objectifying' would become the title of my next posting, and I stand true to my word. Honestly, it's been a stretch to link that 5 syllable word to any semblance of a cohesive blog. I started contemplating 5 syllable words and terms and, as you can witness, I wasn't delving deep for this so I limited them to just a few. I take great personal comfort in knowing, however, that 'disappointments' and 'limitations' take lesser pronunciation effort than ' great expectations.' I wanted to include Eleanor Roosevelt, but as any 2nd grade scholar can determine, that would put me one syllable over my self-imposed limit; and I highly doubt the former first woman went by Ellie.

Next, I jumped on some crazy self-defined theory equating length of terms with perceived importance or significance. (Apparently, length matters.) Did my 'objectifying' place me higher than the 'coveting' I was met with? I know better... but have you tried to create conversations based around abundantly syllabic words? Try it. (I'll wait... Waiting. Ahem. Try it, you there with that smug look on your face and your 6-7 syllable words.) I did, and you can see that I quickly gave way to phrases instead.

So, both Marilyn and Mother Teresa rate at 5? I can see that, in some circles. Bill Clinton falls short with only 3. But notice Hillary Rodham is at a whopping 7. And Monica Lewinsky. You figure it out. Barack Obama, entertaining this vacuous theory of mine,- it would seem we should fare fairly well where he is concerned. John McCain? Too little... and too late, in life, perhaps too.

I found, ironically, myself objectifying the very list I cited, essentially, and valuing the parts more than the whole at times. And maybe it's good enough some days, in our casual conversations to look at the daily or ordinary with average vocabulary, keeping observations to 3 syllable terms or fewer~ lest we play our cards too soon and inhibit our acquaintances by shamelessly reveling in our inane, but lengthy banter. Huh? Perhaps this isn't the time to mention that the formal, legal name of the love of my life comes in at 5; I'll raise him 2, to my 7. :) And, what's any of this really mean anyway... John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt?

Note: My birth name comes in at a 5, so I'll concede equivalence~ in that arena. :) Also, dear followers, thank you for not chiding me for citing 'expectations' as a 5 syllable word, allowing for in.san.i.ty which is more prevalent, and openly embraced, during the chaotic festivities of the merry season. In your honor, I've included the descriptor inclusion, bringing it to 5.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Sometimes The Spirit Moves Me... to write

Sometimes the Spirit Touches Us by James Christensen is one of my favorite pieces of art (that I don't own! Actually, there are many 'favorite' pieces of art that I don't own.) But I was recently (lovingly) chided for my writing being dark~ essentially writing what I know.
It did cause me to reflect on why my writings aren't 'chipper,' if you will, especially with this being the season of goodwill and feeling good and good libations (and feeling good w/good libations is always money well spent!)

I'll admit it. I'm not in the 'spirit of Christmas' this year; and, although this has been a year of challenges, I realize that I'm better off than most. What I'm surmising is that, to me, this recession our country denies it's in has been the real 'gift.' (No, I am not currently enjoying any libations~ ruefully!)
I like the fact that we've had to examine our consumerism and our greed in the attempt at keeping up appearances. How long will you stay below the surface, or how far will you dive, pretending that you're openly sailing. I feel sadness when I voyeuristically (ahem... uh, yes! You know you do it too!) observe others in the 'necessary evil' chain stores tyring to find anything (ANYTHING!) appropriate to give Great Aunt Gertrude who has decided stop in this holiday. Or for Junior who only has the latest edition of PlayStation? And only a 42" screen to play it on?

I'm glad that my kids will be receiving less, and that I have social permission to do less for them. I know Ihave been guilty of this precedent of overcompensating via tangible gifts. It will soften the sting of those expectations, elevated for them in the quest to quell the losses of divorce. They can save face by knowing that 'there's a recession' and everyone has to cut back. (When will they internalize that more doesn't equate to happiness- esp. with a mother who has only recently embraced this?) Many of their friends are in the same proverbial boat. Safety in numbers. (But what of the numbers who forced their way into a budget store on Black Friday? Safety in numbers?)

For those who are openly singing Christmas tunes around the clock, I applaud you. What I'm seeking this year is a joy and appreciation of all that enters my life year round~ because I'm smart enough and evolved enough to embrace it daily. Not because I'm supposed to.

The spirit does move me... every day. And I don't have the latest ride, or seasonably fashionable clothes or cook gourmet meals (every night), but those things don't define me, and they don't touch me at my very core. This year, I will enjoy this season for all that it is, and for me it's the opportunity to spend a little extra time with people I adore~ and whom I don't always tell often enough. And perhaps, just perhaps, if you listen closely, you'll hear me (a little off key) singing 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' . . . and the spirit will move you.

Monday, November 24, 2008

'Please, sir. Can I 'ave some more?'

In this season of open gluttonly, I appreciate how you openly invite me (goad me?) to relay more drivel. My mother would (only somewhat tongue-in-cheek) say that 'Enough's as good as plenty," but that was apparently one lesson lost on her firstborn. And obviously not the philosphy embraced in of this land of privilege, as even at this moment plans are being made as to what to do with the leftovers following the feast.

And therein lies the dilemna for me- what do we do with the leftovers?

This issue has been thrust into my daily existence as of late, as I wrestle with what to abandon or decide to Craig's List from the home I am forfeiting, the most tangible loss from a union that was uncomplimentary at best. His green to her red. Purple to yellow.

Unlike the neat little Gladware that we can scoop up our remants in to with matching lids, never even dirtying our hands, how best to package and compartmentalize the pieces that no one will be seeking out for seconds? Will the children want the album from the legal union that allows their parents to still share a surname? 'Our First Christmas Together' doesn't hold the keepsake memory promised by Hallmark -which at most visited one month a year, laying dormant the other eleven months... and which now resides there indefinitely.
And what of the children? Legally ours, but truly mine, increasingly so. At an age when vocalizations of wants are increasing, there are no neat little packages to sort out their needs with expiration dates clearly charting their openings or disposals. Their father and I still dance around the arrangements, both of us wanting to lead. So when the details are negotiated, will the childrens' needs sit center table or just be scraped aside and saved for later? Will they become a part of the preparation?
And when that impending deadline approaches, why is it the mother who decides what to discard and what to save as if predicting the future? Because... because I'm the mom. And I said so. And because at the end of the day, I'll be the one left holding the bag...

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Virginity Relinquished... willingly

It has been quoted (by some wise, if not weary, writer ) somewhere that you don't truly know a woman until you've had a letter from her. Let that serve as a disclaimer (ahem... warning?) that you may therefore be exposed to more than you ever desired to know if you partake in these random, sporatic observations and recordings on life from this Kansas girl (?).
At the prompting, nudging and coersion of those I've grown quite fond of, I am, alas, venturing into the relatively anonymous abyss of blogging; making my headspace now open fodder for those who've tired of cleaning the lint from the dryer.
I openly admit I'm a quote-aholic, not even willing to concede that obsession, and have embraced the art of sarcasm and facetiousness. As the product of a mother who writes, a step-father who writes- technically (No. Really He is a Tech Writer) and a father who used his physical attributes to get ahead in this world, I'm a true psychiatrist's dream, for I not only can embrace (on occasion) the superficial, but I can journal about how wrong and shallow it is. Quite eloquently, too. (See, there I go, feeding that less substantive aspect of all that is me.)
Hang around awhile though and you'll learn that, in fact, humility reigns and no lesson is too small. For this toe-dipper, I prepare to plunge... time to test the water.