1. I need another mysterious stranger to come to town and woo me for three days. As a matter of fact, let’s just put that on the schedule once every two weeks, say Saturday - Monday. We can call it Stranger Danger. Or Stranger “Danger’. Or Ego Boost. Yeah. That works. Get on it, universe.
2. My brain is quite literally all tingly from all the work I’ve been doing to learn the songs for the musical. The Portuguese is still kicking my ass, but I’ve almost got it down as long as I’m reading it. Yesterday I worked with the composer/arranger for a couple of hours, and he made me sing along with him without any sheet music at all. He also gave me some helpful coaching – suggested I work on singing it in character because she knows the song inside and out, she lives the song. The other ones, in English, are coming along a little more quickly, and we worked on two of them as a group with a pianist last night. I’ll be singing most of the songs myself, although we are adding in some layers of harmony to choruses so I don’t have to carry it completely. There’s a fado, a tango, a waltz, a flamenco, and a gospel piece, plus one that has yet to be written. I can do this, but it’s challenging me in ways I forgot I could be challenged. I know this is a good thing, in spite of my impulse to run and hide every time I have to open my mouth and let the sounds come out in front of other people.
3. I haven’t written a thing in months. My presentation powerpoint is due by midnight on Thursday, and I haven’t even written more than a spotty outline for it. I guess I need to get cracking on that this weekend, and really nail it down, because I’ve got to fill 70 minutes of dead air to a room of 50 strangers who are expecting to learn something about how to create a local food culture in their communities. Procrastination is my downfall, and my first, last, and middle name.
4. It feels as if we have jumped right into fall. In one day it went from 90 degrees with 95% humidity and a tornado down the street, to 55 and where’s my flannel, please. I’m not ready. The garden is still producing, but suddenly the vines are all dying back, and it’s time to begin cleanup, and I haven’t even finished putting bark mulch in the perennial beds, and the damn leaves are beginning to fall off the trees, and acorns are falling everywhere making a racket. I just can’t even with the thought of winter. I can’t. No. I swear I just put my snow boots away yesterday.
5. Let’s pretend that I wrote something deep and insightful here. Or boobs. Whichever.
I don’t know how to turn off this faucet. Perpetual tears over here right now.
I think tonight we came to the conclusion that a separation will be permanent, not a trail, and I didn’t realize my head could manufacture yet this much more snot.
I was wide awake last night until close to 2am, so after I mumble-squinted my way through making breakfast, doling out lunch money, and herding Lila out the door this morning, I crawled back into my bed and pulled the crisp, clean sheet and worn cotton quilt up under my chin and slept for two more hours. I just got up and am having a cuppa before I take my very bad dog for his morning constitutional, which I am dreading after his last night’s escapade. Nothing more disgusting that poop poop. Bad, bad dog.
We’re in a holding pattern here. Chris has not found a place, and I’m so busy with rehearsals, class, and a few social obligations that have been on the books for a while, that I’m not even here in the evenings, so whatever. It’s all strangely amicable, yet distant. My anxiety has faded for the most part, and I seem to be in a place in my head that is holding it all at arm’s length. No, that’s not quite right. I’m standing in the doorway looking in, but my body is turned as if to walk away. I don’t know how to react to anything any more, so I’m attempting to not react, just watch and listen and try to pay attention to what happens inside me around it. Because of all of the quiet, the internal storm noise has died down, and I’m realizing that I have no idea what I want, and that is no longer causing me blind panic. I see a glimmer of truth that anything is possible.
We have reached a new low in this house
that I am hoping will be a teachable moment for my kid, who just realized that she *once again* failed to flush down the brown, AND left the lid up.
And also that the dog ate it.
BRB burning it all to the ground.
On being easy
Some advice: if you fuck on the first-date, he probably won’t come back for a second. If the sex was hot and he does come back enjoy becoming fuck-buddies, because by fucking on the first-date, you’ve essentially told him by your actions: “I’m easy and definitely not the type of girl you’ll be wanting to take-home or marry, because anyone who I find attractive and who picks up the bill, I’ll let fuck me.”
I’m glad that you read my twitter, and I can appreciate the brass balls it takes to offer someone like me unsolicited advice, but honey, not only are you in way over your head, you’re also wrong about life.
I fuck who I fuck when I fuck because I wanna fuck, and I don’t give a flying fuck whether the people I fuck think I’m the marrying type. That doesn’t make me easy. That makes me hard.
I am the one in command of my own sexual virtue. I am the one who defines that virtue. No one else gets a say in it — not you, not the world, and certainly not some guy I allowed the privilege of fucking me on the first date.
Everything you believe to be true about sexual virtue is a tragic lie instilled in you by a misogynistic, patriarchal culture that is fundamentally terrified of female sexuality, and that bullshit needs to be systematically unlearned. I’d feel sorry for you if you weren’t making yourself part of the problem by spreading around this kind of ignorant, regressive poison.
In your best Mae West voice.