* Roommates of pals who don’t even know you feel sorry for your pitifullness and invite you for a long weekend in another state.

* Your parental unit who likes to keep you all to herself is telling you to get out and meet people.

* Nine or ten hours at the job site seem like a refuge.

* Leaving to bust your balls setting up a new store is like an oasis in the desert.

* You can’t see the forest because you just don’t give a shit about the trees.

* You start believing that the ass-shaped dent in your sofa is uber-chic.

* Your fingernails are the only real nutrition you’ve had in days.

* You depress the Hell outta folks with your woe is me blog entries.

You gotta get up. You gotta. Ok. But only ‘cuz I hafta go to the bathroom. Even dents need time to breathe.

 If I’da only had that when I was younger.

 So I went for my first eye exam today. I was definitely apprehensive and tried to conjour up a decent excuse with which to cancel. Like I did the last time. But no, off I went, dilation inevitable, carrying the encouragement of those close to me on my back. (Lu, Yadge and Dork-o, thanks)

 Geez, you’d think I was undergoing some major surgery, eh? I’m a wuss. Simply put. Especially when it comes to my eyes.

 The Doctor QT asks me a series of questions. Some, I thought, rather irrelevant. “I see here that you’re…uh…adopted. That’s ok, no problem.” I think he was more uncomfortable with saying it like that than I have EVER been for being it, despite the fact that having NO family history truly does complicate things like this at times… …Are brown eyes dominant? Or blue eyes? What color does my mother have, I wonder…”Wake up, Theresa! Do you have any hobbies?” Um…sure. You want me to name ’em? “Do you participate in any outdoor activities?” “Does walkin’ up the block to the market for smokes count?” Eliciting a laugh was worth the 10 dollar co-pay.

 When it came time for Dr. QT to put the drops in? Comical. Legs ready to bolt, arms up in defensive mode. I HATE that shit. My dentist, (a funny guy in his own right-Dr. Beaver, no joke) and this guy can surely chuckle together over a glass of chardonnay about the 41 year old dumb ass woman who acts like a child when it comes time to, “lean back and relax.” These guys definitely earn their pay. I don’t do well in offensive postures. Perhaps I have been enslaved and apprehended and subdued through force in numerous lifetimes? Perhaps.

 Anyway, it was like an eyeball obstacle course. Sit in the Darth Vader chair, get drops. Chin in-forehead against. Lights, cameras, action. Move on to round two. More drops. Dilation. Get put in a room for ten minutes for the drops to take affect. I’m thinking this ain’t so bad until I hafta walk to room three. I can’t even read the signs on the wall! Chin on-forehead again. Measuring my eyeballs. I tell her that I’m pretty sure they’re round. “Not necessarily,” says she…

 Then on to the refractor? machine. Look at the pretty balloon in the middle. Then some freakish red carnival-esque spiral lights. Girl- Doc says I’m a trooper. I bow my chest out a bit. Just a bit. Don’t wanna seem too proud, I hardly KNOW these people.

 Back to room one to Dr. QT. Blue light, bright light. Damn, the light sucks. Read this line. Well…e f r s g? no, maybe o.

  I ask him my numbers first off. He laughs. “I’ll tell you,” he says. “Your vision is 20/25” (Crap! I knew I shoulda studied harder!). “We’re not going to fix what isn’t broken. But next year you might find that a prescription will assist with reading the fine print.”

 But, Doc! Aren’t I doing pretty good for a 41 year old? He says, “You’re about where we’d expect you to be.” AVERAGE? WTF? I loathe that word or implication.

 I ask about my floatie things. He says they’re normal. My eyes are great. Blood vessels are perfect, size and shape good. He asks if I ever have dry eyes. I laugh. I say, “Doc, when that happens, I simply watch a Publix commercial.” Big pause. Excruciating silence. Then he gets it. “Yeah, I like the Valentine one with the little boy,” he tells me. “I don’t see any dry areas or redness in your eyes, keep up with the Publix commercials.” If he only knew that soooo many things keep my eyes lubricated these days…

  I ask about one of the issues…my light sensitivity.  Shouldn’t I be LESS sensitive to light since I have brown eyes?

 “Yes, you are. But only in the front of your eyes. The pigmentation in the back of your eyes is less.” “You can see that?”, I ask. He says, “Yup.” He says to think of it as being “blonde” in the back and “brunette” in the front. I smile. Right on, dude. Love me some blondes, yo. {Big sly grin}

  I get these cool Darth Vader glasses to-go and I’m on my way. ” See y’all in a year, ” I say. ” Bye Theresa, ” they say. God, I gotta fix that whole name thing…

 I can’t see shit, my eyes look like those you’d see on an episode of COPS.

  Lu says, ” Just stay in your apartment, Deedle.” I say…you don’t ever need to give me THAT 20/25 advice twice!

 Peace out, y’all. SEE you later.

Yup, I sure do. I totally suck suck suck at times in my life.
This is one of those times.

Thanks for coming.
Goodnight.

Yup, me too.

Geez. I bet there’s some fun shit swirling around in my petrie dish, y’all.

As soon as I can identify it, I’ll write it.

I’m sure that Dorothy, et al, will add to the maelstrom of goo.
Always my critics, always so kind.

Good thing that I’m the friggin’ editor, eh?
(Gracias, Eh-Net.)

I’ll catch ya later, folks.

I’ll catch some whimsy somewhere.

Until then,
peace, out.

Yes indeed. I’m a chubb-o these days. It’s poetic justice, in a sense. Poetically, I’m a vain woman. In plain english, I’m a vain woman. A gaining woman. But here’s the thing: if I put willingness on one side and I just don’t give a fuck on the other, guess which weighs more? Right, they’re even. So what’s a girl to do?
Folks’ll come into the shop and ask for scales. Food scales, I ask? No. People scales. Nope. Sorry. But we have this here UPS scale that you can borrow. It goes up to 70lbs. I need to stand on it almost 2.5 times nowadays. That sucks. Two summers ago, I was light. So light, that folks commented on my lightness. Three moons forward, I’m chunky. So chunky, that folks have the unmitigated gall to comment on my chunk. I suppose if you act like you have no feelings, people think there’s nothing to hurt. But what’s my point? My point is this; I gotta put down the fork and pick up the pace. Isolation begets sloth. And even though Lu and I joke about my being descended from sloths, it can’t really be true. Can it? I have more than three toes, anyway. So here’s the plan; Get up, get out, get on with it. Being secluded and down on my myself doesn’t burn fat. So…Eh-net. What’s for dinner?

It’s comin’ on Christmas, they’re cuttin’ down trees, puttin’ up reindeer, an’ singin’ songs of joy and peace.
I wish I had a river that I could skate away on…

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Or typing, as the case may be.
My head’s amiss. Thoughts fire on and off like pistons. Whack-mad-crazy. Gotta let ’em out, let ’em fly.
I passed eight ass holes yesterday. No, rather, eight ass holes passed me. I was driving, as I so often do to earn a buck. Trying, blinker on, to get over one lane. Just one. One, two, three, four…waiting…five, six, seven cars ignored me. Sped up even, to avoid any human decency. Blocked out my stare, pretended I wasn’t there. What is it about us humans that makes us treat one another so poorly? I wonder this. I often treat people like shit. But oddly, not in traffic. I’m a safe and polite driver. I’ll let you in. And when/if you wave, I’ll wave back. It soothes me. Makes me feel proud to do an anonymous good deed for my fellow man. But not those seven. Clearly they weren’t feeling it. Did they feel better, triumphant even, to remain those few cars ahead?
To speed up…and remain those few cars ahead.
I treated some folks like shit this week. Customers that annoyed me, friends who didn’t console me, family members that regarded other family members poorly. Even my spider received my disdain. I have an excuse. Pms. The doctor didn’t remove this debilitating ailment with my other parts. Bummer. I shoulda opted for the ovary scoop.
Hormone supplements might just be the ticket to quiet my crazy brain. Or not.
Here’s another persistant beckoning of my mind as of late:
Who do I trust implicitly?
Without doubt or reserve. Hmmm…
Can’t think of a one. Not necessarily due to any defect that my loved ones posess, but more likely my own defects that follow me from the days of thumb sucking and rocking. I just can’t tell you everything. I’m too afraid. Too
afraid that it’ll just be too goddamned much. Too much, too late, too labor intensive. Not to mention my ego. My self image that has me thinking that you’ll just judge hastily or blab extensively or worse, think less of.
Me.
I’ve screwed some things up royally in my life. If I hadn’t relapsed, I’d have celebrated 16 years of sobriety on September 12th. But to dwell on that brings me grief and self loathing.
No changing that fucking past. But damn how it still hurts me so. Lingers there, like a bad dream.
So many questions I have about the why’s and the who’s and the how’s of this life.
So much elequence that I see wafting past, that I get so ashamed of my limited output.
But you don’t really care and I respect that. I understand that my own life is significantly more important to me than
to anyone else. It’s the way it should be. You consider you. I’ll consider me.
But take it a bit easy, won’t you? No matter how much I hide or how much you think you know, take it easy.
You being a better example of kindness and love than me is something I already know. And my wounds are salty enough. I should know, I own stock in Morton’s.
Just do me this one favor:
Tomorrow, when you’re out and about and you see an opportunity to let me in, do it.
I know you’ll feel better. You will because you will.
And it’ll give me a reason to smile. Even if its magnitude is minute.
Even if it means a spec of dust in a dirt pile. I’ll feel better.

(Oh, and one more thing, if Lolita calls in a cricket order, tell her they’re on the way.)
Thanks, y’all.

What do y’all think about when you’re at the end of your wits? The place where you feel stifled and oppressed? The place where you’re just so Goddamned tired of being responsible. So tired of looking into the disappointed eyes of your loved ones. You fucked it up again, Dee.
Do you ever imagine yourself just walking? Walking away? Like your life was a dirt path and you could just keep going? Going far, going long. Going to familiar places. Like that walk could answer all your questions? Answer the void left behind from so long ago…?
Cleveland Dam? Capilano Fish Hatcheries? The house where you ran away from, the house where you fled to? The memories of youth that grew up and grew out, only to leave you wanting? What do you do when you want to leave it all behind? When the restraints of this life bind you so tight that you want to scream? When you feel so weighed down by the expections of others? When you feel like it was all a farce, a fraud? That you really suck at all these endeavors? That the ones who believed in you were misled all along? That your life is really meaningless? And the ones who tell you otherwise are mistaken? That the difference you dreamed of making as a child, was just a fleeting glimpse of someone elses reality?
I’m in that place now. That flight path. The old run before you walk mode. It happens now and again. I wonder if it shall ever take hold. Take hold and allow me to walk away. Walk so far away from everything. Everyone. I wish sometimes, that the world would end. So that I may have an excuse to walk. Watch me now. Walking away.
To quote Mr. Blunt;

I’m so hollow baby. I’m so hollow. I’m so, I’m so, I’m so…hollow…

Don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh babe, I hate to go. So kiss me and smile for me. Tell me that you’ll wait for me. Hold me like you’ll never let me go…
What a wheelbarrow load of crapola. Miss me? No way. I don’t want you to miss me. Because I don’t want to miss you. It’s just simpler this way. I loathe all of those “missing” antics. I can’t miss you. It would mean that you mean something to me. And I just can’t let you know that. It’s too hard. God always removes those that reveal themselves as loving me.
It’s true. Ask Ed. Ask Judy…Oh wait. You can’t. They’re dead.
I’m armoured against love. It is a fallacy and rumour spewed out by media execs. They make millions on those of you who fall prey…
So here’s the amended version of the famous John Denver tune; sing the words as you would the original.
So kiss me and smile for me. Tell me you won’t wait for me. Hold me like we’ll never hug again…
Because I will forget you. Try to push you out of my head. It’s too painful to pretend.
That you’ll be here ’til the end, be here to quiet my mind. Oh babe, leave me right now.
Because I’ll leave you before you leave me, just a way to show my disbelief.
Oh babe, I hate to go…
But gone I am.

God knows where this will go or how far back it may stretch. But what is a blog for, if not for spastic brainstorming?

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