Fixed it

Falling in love...

It's different for everyone.  The first time I was ever really in love with someone, he was six foot tall, had dark hair, beautiful beagle brown eyes, high cheekbones and a runner's physique.  He was 19 and very cute.  He had recently moved to the area to live with his sister and her husband.  The first time I met him, I was working with her at a convenience store.  He had walked to the store to walk her home.  When I saw him, I fell almost instantly.  He was sweet and kind of shy.  I got in trouble for not doing my work because I stood in the far corner of the store, talking to him.  I thought he was precious, and he was definitely good looking.

That was August.  By October, he had broken my heart the first of what would be several times.  I found out that the reason he had moved in with his sister was because he wanted to be closer to someone else.  That someone I would never be able to compete with, because that someone was a guy.  Yep, my first real love was gay.  Over time, he used me as alternating cover with the straight world and fag hag in the gay world.  He knew how I felt about him.  It just didn't really matter to him, I suppose.

There were times I actually thought that I could change him.  I know that's what his family hoped.  I did learn, that wouldn't happen.  I slowly got over being in love and learned to love him as my friend.  It created a huge scar that breaks open, even now, erupting into a round of blues that use to last days.  Every time I have thought I was in love since then has dredged up how badly I fucked up that first time around.

The blues that those memories create, they don't last long anymore.  They still show up, especially in late summer, early fall.  Now, they may last a few hours, if that.  There is always a kind, understanding friend who will try to make that time shorter.  I would be lost without those friends.  Some of my friends know the whole story, some don't.  The ones that don't, just know that something has me hurting.  I thank God that there are friends to remind me that it is the past, and not my present, where those feelings belong.

I've been hurt more times than I care to remember.  There have been several, but the gay guy; the-couldn't-make-up-his mind-guy; a parole jumper and a short guy with a Napoleon complex worse than Napoleon's, they all truly broke my heart.  There was a boy in high school too, with black hair and piercing blue eyes.  I don't usually count him, but if I were to be honest with myself, that case of puppy love has probably played a part in my blues that occur.

I gave up.  It's true.  I've spent a long time hiding from feeling anything like love.  I shoved any and all romantic notions to the bottom left corner of my heart, and locked them there.  I was reminded recently, though, my lack of success in love is just because the right guy hasn't shown up yet.  When he does show up, my heart and my world will change, for the better.  So, I found my hope again.  Is he really out there?  I sincerely pray he is.  Am I going to find him?  Again, that is what I hope.  Will I know him when he makes his appearance?  I don't know.  I've hidden away for so long, recognizing him may be difficult.  I think it will click, if he's patient.  For the first time in years, I'm ready to give my heart away.  I'm ready to take the risk that I could once again be forced to feel that deep pain that seems like will never go away.

That pain goes away, eventually.  For some, it just takes a little longer.  For me, it has felt like forever that I have been in hibernation.  Will I be hurt again?  Possibly.  Does it really matter, being hurt?  Is the
benefit worth the risk?  I have decided the benefits definitely outweigh the possibility of pain.  It's time I learn to keep my heart open and not be afraid of what could occur.  Instead, I will keep to the positive side and wait for what I want: the guy who gets me, thinks I am beautiful (because I am), and who willingly, happily accepts my devotion and love.  In return, I will go through Hell for him, if I must.  I will spend whatever time I have proving that he is the only one.  I will let him know, my love is forever and not contingent upon looks or money but heart and soul.

My heart is ready.  Now, I am just waiting for it's order to be filled.            

Being Red

I am an unapologetic redhead, with the fiery temper and attitude to go along with it.  I was a redhead when I arrived on the scene more years ago than I care to remember.  I have freckles in places seen and unseen.  My freckles think a little sunshine is license to absolutely pollute my pale skin with spots.  Somedays, I start thinkin' I'm a dalmatian!

My red hair and freckles were always a target for bullies when I was in school.  Didn't have much of a choice with either of them so I learned to live with it. I went home crying on numerous days but I think the combination was designed to make me the independent bitch that I am today.  I wear the title Bitch like a badge of honor.  I had to work to get to the point where I didn't care what other people think of me.  Fuck you if you don't like me, my auburn locks or my 'angel kisses'.  Who says I like you anyway?

'Angel kisses'.  That's what a family friend use to call my freckles.  They said that the angels in Heaven must have been very sad when I left to be born, because they kissed me so much before I left.  Each place they kissed became a freckle.  When I was a little girl, being told that always made me feel better when I was being picked on about my 'spots'.

There are hazards to being a true ginger.  I am a perfect candidate for skin cancer.  Back when I was a kid, we didn't worry about sunblock or skin cancer.  I had sun poison more times than I can remember.  My mom kept Noxzema readily available during the summer.  That was what we used to cool the sting of a severe sunburn.  God knows, I still remember what sunburn feels like, even though I haven't been sunburnt in years.  Once we found out about using aloe to help take the bite out of the burn, that is what we used.

Trust me when I tell you, I learned to avoid direct sunlight.  With my sleep issues and the need to stay in the shade, I have gotten called 'vampire' on numerous occasions.  Didn't matter that I actually wore a cross pendant for years, I was convincing (ornery) enough to actually have a few gullible kids believe that I really was a vampire.  I always thought that was funny.  I have been fond of the vampire myth for years, because I felt kindred to them.

Being a redhead also means that as you go gray, your flaming curls (in my case) start to look mousy.  When that began to happen, I introduced myself to Miss Clairol.  She makes sure that my hair stays a wonderful Lucille Ball red.  I love it.  Hated my hair as a kid, love it as an adult.  Funny thing is, there are so many women dyeing their hair red these days.  They don't have the attitude that goes along with being a true red.  They will never get that attitude.  You have to be born a ginger and tortured as a ginger to get that particular attitude.

I am still ghost white pale (well, if you don't count the freckles, of course).  My hair is still bright red, with a little help these days.  I stay out of the sun except to pass from one shaded spot to another.  In the past, these little things would have pissed me off.  They don't anymore.  I revel in the fact other women want something that I was born with, amazing, right?  Guess that makes me special...

...but then, I already knew that.



 

Recollection - My Baby Sister

I was born...

Baa haa!!  Trust me, I don't remember that far back.  Could you imagine the trauma of remembering that kind of an experience?  

         There was this bright light, and some masked creature with cold hands.....

Don't think so!! 

I have many childhood memories.  I faintly recall when my parents brought home the last of their five children from the hospital.  It was my baby sister.  She was my living doll baby for about an hour.  Then, until she got married at age 19, she was a huge pain in my butt.  Though I told her not to, she played with my toys.  She followed me around, till she decided I was boring.  She always ratted me out for the dumbest things and I always got in trouble.  When we got older, before I could, she would wear my new clothes.  I could go on, but I won't.

We shared a bedroom till I was 18.  My sister made June Cleaver and Felix Unger look like slobs.  Guess who was an Oscar Madison extraordinaire!!!  That's right...ME!!!  Once, she even used duct tape to divide our room in half.  No joke!  I had piles of clothes, folded and stacked everywhere but in the dresser.  I had huge mountain of dirty clothes, because I hated to do laundry.  I think I slept under part of it because it overflowed onto my bed.  

One night, shortly before we finally parted ways as roomies, she decided to rearrange the bedroom.  Okay, now this wouldn't have been a problem except she did it while I was work.  I had no idea.  I worked the closing shift at a local convenience store.  By the time I would get home, it was often past midnight.  I would go in the door, not turn on any lights, sit my purse on the table, hang up the keys and go to bed.  Here's where there was a problem.  When I went to flop exhausted onto my bed, I hit the floor.  Yep!!  In the background, I heard giggles from not just one person, but three people, because my sister had also chosen that night to have her two best friends stay over.  While I was spitting, sputtering and beginning to screech, my sister and her friends were laughing their asses off.   I got off the floor and turned on the overhead light.  My bed had moved to the other side of the room.  Meanwhile, I'm loudly saying some not so nice things, and drew the attention of my mother.  She was not happy with me.   Hey, you go to bed and your bed ain't there...how the hell was I supposed to react?  I had bounced my head off what turned out to be my dresser, and my ass hurt from landing on a hardwood floor.  

Long story shortened, my sister had drawn a map, and left it on the kitchen table.  Problem is, I didn't see it because I didn't turn on the lights.  Yes, she was the bane of my existence, until she got married.  Then I realized how much I missed the fricking knucklehead.  I helped my sister arrange and pay for her wedding, including her dress.  Mom and Dad were separated at the time (another story).  Neither wanted her to marry, and neither had extra funds to help.  So I did.  It was nothing fancy.  Between myself, my future brother in law and my sister, it turned out be a nice little fete.  

That was 1989.  She lost babies to miscarriages...multiple babies.  She gave birth to one of the most wonderful  young men I have ever had the pleasure to know.  She has survived the destructive force of an unfaithful spouse, and she's still married to him (that 'for better, for worse' line....he had the 'better', then he got the 'worse'...lol).  My sister actually threatened him with a baseball bat.  They worked things out, and they are better than ever. even with my brother in law's health issues.   As a couple, they work well together. 

My pain in the tookus sister has become one of my best friends.  We talk, laugh, snarl and it doesn't cause a big fight.  I suppose there is something to be said about maturity, though I still kinda think it's overrated.  My little sister is way more grown up than I am.  It has been like that since she got married.  Everyone assumes she is the older sister.  I'm not arguing with them.  


That little living doll in pink, I'm very glad that my folks decided to bring her home.  My life would have been, and would still be, very empty without her.  I admire her strength, her tenacity, her determination, her survival through all of the hard times that she has had.  My baby sister is worthy of every bit of admiration I can give her.  I think she's great, just don't tell her. 

Words

Words can build you up, and they can tear you down.  Words have the power to enlighten, but also to destroy.  Words can make you.  Words can break you.  The old adage "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.", yeah!  Whoever came up with that one was obviously not a short, overweight redhead with a really unusual last name.

When I was a child, I'm not sure what got me bullied quicker: my red hair; the overwhelming quantity of freckles; my stature; my cute chubbiness or my last name.  That was just at school, not even talking about home.  I have four siblings who could be (and occasionally still can be), very sharp tongued.  Being the overly sensitive, heart on the sleeve type that I can be (especially growing up), I spent a great deal of time in tears.

I know now that most people use cruel words because they are the ones who are afraid.  As kid, I didn't know that.  I thought people hated me because I was different.  It had a big effect upon the person I have matured into, but not all of the effects were bad, and not all were good.  I had to develop a very thick skin, and that took years for that to finally happen.  By my own admission, therapy helped.

Some people would refer to it as getting a backbone, my sister's favorite phrase.  Some people would say I learned to pull myself up by the bootstraps, my parent's favorite saying.  I say I learned to stand up for myself.  I stopped being a whipping girl for everyone who had a fit to pitch.  I stopped tolerating being used by family and friends.  I decided that enough was enough.  I became a fully fledged bitch.

I know that there are times that I can be very hostile when I feel cornered.  Most folks never have to see that side of me.  Being that way can tire me out, clear down to my soul.  I prefer to not get that angry.  I've been known to do it when necessary.  I've also been known to throw a punch or two.  That really catches people off guard.  I've gotten into trouble several times for putting a fist in somebody's face.  If you ever get the chance, ask my lifelong best friend's husband about summer between fifth and sixth grade.  He found out that a carefully placed foot across the throat and one firmly placed foot on the chest are not very comfortable.   Most only see my sweet side, which is the dominant side, for sure, but I know how to stand up for myself.

As I have gotten older, not only have I learned to stand up for myself, I have also learned that words do more damage than my fist ever could.  I've become very cutting when needed.  It is a talent that comes in very handy with domineering people.  A few specifically chosen words, and I am no longer a target.  It does tend to upset my mother, but it is a talent I have watched her demonstrate many times in my life.  I was the target on numerous occasions, though not in recent years.

Being a customer service person has helped to hone that skill.  Harsh as it may be, there can be times when a talent for politely rude words is needed.  I understand that everyone deserves to be treated with respect, but you have to give respect to get respect.  If you want my help, if you need my help, then show me respect for the knowledge that I have, respect that I deserve.  If someone calls a customer service phone number, then be prepared to be courteous and polite, or expect the representative to be a bit hostile.  It is truly that simple.

I can still get hurt by words.  It happens, because some people know exactly what words to say to make it hurt.  Not everything goes in one ear and out the other.  Some of it sticks.  I am still a heart on the sleeve type.  I just hide it better these days.

Now, when I hurt, I write.  I vent it to the world.  I figure if I can show somebody else that it can be gotten passed, gotten over or gotten around, then I have done a great thing.  I didn't set out to show anyone my hurts or scars.  I started this blog wanting to share those things that I love: friends; family; pets; Ryback...lol!  This blog has become a record of my journey to the next stage in my life, whatever that may be.  I've opened my heart and my mind without fear.  I want others to know that remembering where you have been and looking forward to where you are going are important, but that where you are right now is the greatest thing you will ever have.  Yesterday is gone.  Tomorrow is not promised.  There is only today...specifically, there is only right now.

Words are a wonder.  Words can take you away, or plant you firmly in the now.  There is no greater power than the words we choose to use at any given moment.  I want mine to count.  Do you?
 

My Pop

My pop was a great guy...my hero.

Thursday of this week would be Daddy's birthday if he were still here.  He would have been 73.  He left me way too soon.

I've been feeling really dark because of this anniversary and a few other things that have happened recently.  In the past, I would've curled up next to Daddy and bawled my eyes out into his shoulder.  I cry alone nowadays.  I don't have a man in my life that I can trust enough to do that with, not like Pop.

I know I should be happy.  He's in a place where he isn't sick anymore, where he's younger, perfectly healthy, with sight in both eyes.  Pop was really sick for the last 2 - 3 years of his life.  He was a shadow of himself.  Even though he was half of the man physically that he was all my life, he was still Daddy.  He was still my rock, my comfort, my protector...the one person I knew I could confidently turn to when I was down and feel comforted just by being hugged.  His deep voice was weak from being sick, but I could still hear it.  Now I can't.  It was taken away.

My mom tries her best to understand me and to offer comfort when I feel like this, but this week is hard for her too.  They had been together for almost 54 years, married nearly 50 years when Daddy left us.  Mom really misses him also but for different reasons, of course.  Sometimes she will look at his picture and say "Damn you for leaving me, Jim!" and my heart breaks, because I am usually thinking how angry I am that he's gone...still very angry.

I know everybody goes through this kind of loss, though it may not be this soon, or it may be much sooner.  Everyday, something will remind me of what I've lost because of the death of my father.  Sometimes the memories are so strong, they nearly knock me over.  Normally I deal with it very well, but occasionally it gets to be too much.  I might seem strong but dealing with this grief still makes me feel weak.  

I am trying to remember he would not want me to go on like this...that I should keep moving forward, enjoying life.  For the most part, I do, but every now and then, the wind in my sails dies down and I'm sitting in the open water wondering "Where the fuck do I go from here?".  It has been one of those days...one of those weeks.

Where do I go from here, Daddy?

Fragile

The last thing I ever want is to say goodbye.  Loss is something few of us deal with very well.  Some say it's a part of life, and they move on.  Most, like me, carry it with them always.  It is a wound that never quite heals.  It is the scar that always requires tending.

I have faced loss more times than I care to recall.  Each loss enlarges the empty gap in my heart, puts a jagged tear in my soul.  I grieve over my losses and try to learn from them.  Each loss expands the barrier I place between me and anyone who walks into my life.  I expect them to leave, not stay.  I prepare, even when there is no sign they are going to go away.  I know everyone leaves me, not always quickly, but they always leave.  

Trusting and opening my fragile heart to anyone new becomes more difficult after each departure.  It reminds me that I will never be freed completely of my negative nature.  I will always expect the worst to occur. The funny thing is, I still open my heart.  I still have hope.  I have so much love and tenderness to give.  I want to be able to share that with whatever special person crosses the threshold into my life.  

As people walk away from me and they leave for parts unknown, they may say it can't be helped.  They tell me it's what must happen.  I watch as they go but long for them to stay.  Friends who have given me no choice but to say goodbye, my eyes bright with tears.  Loved ones who have departed from this world, and forced my tears to fall.  Beloved pets who require I choose to let them go, shattering my pieced together soul. 

I try to stay strong, but each time, I become a little weaker, a little less me.  I build the walls a little thicker.  I retool the armor to hide chinks that have developed over the years of my life.  My warrior mentality tries to stand and fight for what I want to keep, but to no avail.  The tears fall, and sadness pervades, oozing into every aspect of my existence.  Fear replaces courage.  Anger replaces joy.  Anxiety replaces peace.  Comfort is lost in distress.  Darkness hides the light.  Near crushing pain squeezes my heart.  Sleep and rest become a distant memory.   Time passes when, for a moment, things had finally been right in my world.  Then time stops, and I am once again stagnant, caught in a swamp of hurt.

Maybe, someday, I will finally be able to step away from others, before they step away from me.  That will be the point when I no longer exist, only a reasonable facsimile, without the heart that has made who I am.  Until that day comes, I will continue to balance above the bottomless precipice, waiting, till I'm no longer fragile...just gone.

Thinking about Elvis

August 16th, 1977 marked the end of an American icon, an ignominious end for a man who set the world on fire with his devilish good looks and his hips that had a swing to make a clock pendulum jealous.  Of course, I'm talking about the greatest person to happen to American music, Elvis Presley.

It is sad to think back on my childhood and remember hearing the awful news.  In a world where there was not yet 24 hour news channels, the Internet, Twitter, Facebook (the places we can freely find out everything up to the second), the news spread like lightning in a summer sky.  In a flash, a large part of my childhood went away.  As word spread of where and how he died, the memory of this amazing man became fodder for hate mongers and worshippers alike.

I won't talk about where or how, because even after 36 years, that isn't the important part.  It was only the second time I had seen my mother cry.  The first time was the death of my precious grandfather, 3 years before.  When Elvis died, I saw tears again from a woman who had been always a pillar of strength, and often lacking in strong emotional responses (except maybe anger).  My mom was one of a generation who lost a huge chunk of their collective childhood when Elvis died.

I lost something that day too.  My first musical memories are of listening to Elvis and southern gospel.  My parents listened to some other music but mostly Elvis (Mom) and southern gospel (Daddy).  The death of Elvis impacted me almost as much as the death of my beloved grandfather, who was my first "boyfriend", lol.  You know how a girl and her grandpap can be one of mutual admiration, and that's how it was for me.
Elvis' death was as strong a shock to my life at that time as my grandfather's death.  It was the first time it actually registered that those people on the television screen, on the radio and singing from the collection of vinyl were very human too, just like the rest of us.  Movie stars, music stars...they were beyond real up to that point.  They were above the failings of 'regular' people, in my eyes at that age.  Then Elvis died, and I found out how just how human the famous and beautiful can be.

Even now, though not nearly as much as the years directly following his death, people still claim to have seen Elvis.  I was never one to give any credence to the 'Elvis runs a donut shop in Wisconsin' or 'Elvis owns a karate dojo in Los Angeles'.   Those National Enquirer-type stories only served to darken the legend of the man more.  Even after he was gone, he wasn't allowed to rest in peace.  Fans couldn't let him go, and that lessened who he was to our American culture, who he was to the world.

His ex-wife took the reigns of a meager musical legacy and made it an empire, worth more now than it ever was while Elvis lived.  His image has been plastered on anything and everything including the stamps we used at the Post Office.  Even another American musical icon knew how much impact the name 'Elvis' provided.  It's the reason Michael Jackson married Lisa Marie.  Sad really, two remarkable talents lost to ill prescribed pharmaceuticals.

Who is Elvis to me?  He will always be the running musical thread of my childhood and even my adulthood.  I can listen to his music any time, regardless of my mood.  I will smile and maybe shake my hips a little, like I always have.  He was handsome, talented and sad.

No, I'm not one of those fans that has plans to trek to Graceland.  I'm not planning to visit one of the thousands of tribute shows, though we have even had some good impersonators here where I live.  I prefer to remember Elvis with his jet black hair, gyrating hips and marvelous voice.  I'll listen to Elvis music while I work on my own legacy of a college degree.  I will smile and think about the handsome man with the heart stopping good looks and be a star struck little girl again for awhile.

This little Rock-a-Hula Baby is gonna opt for a Little Less Conversation, because I'm a Hard Headed Woman, feel like a little Trouble, so Don't Be Cruel.  I miss you, Elvis!  Hope it's rockin' wherever you are!