Category Archives: stuff

As the magic baby approaches with bags of toys and junk that no one needs, and kids want (at least until next week when something better comes along… I am sitting here calm and collected thinking about the wonder of it all. No, they have not upped my dose of zanex and I’m not high or drunk.  I just realize that this world is mine. I don’t need stuff to have it all. I have this tattered and worn piece of cloth that protects me and is better than anything that could be dropped down the (non-existent)chimney. Whatever is in that bag on the jet-powered wonder sled just doesn’t appeal to me… unless it brings my favorite girl to me from the north.  Now those are gifts. A friend you love so deeply it hurts, but can’t be near…. Maybe if I give him some perfume the magic baby can make that happen, though not likely…. So I settle for thoughts that make times past. And leave room for times to come. Friendship is like that.  There may be holes where the moths of time have eaten the cloths, but the weave is strong and covers you when you need it most.  And you thought this was some sort of holiday post… HA!  We need that cloth, that veil of friendship. I don’t know how many times I’ve posted about your friends being everything. That is more evident now than ever in these awful times where there isn’t money for stuff.  We aren’t giving big “tokens” of how we feel (or want people to think we do), we’re actually saying it. We don’t need the impossible jet-sled to pass by our house.  We need our hands to find pen and paper (or keyboard) and eyes to meet and those words that mean so much to form on the lips and breathe the warmth of friendship into the cloth.  The words that remind friends that you care for them and think of them even if you are busy, words that tell them they are beautiful and special and no matter where in the world you are, they will be there too, because no one can take what’s woven into the cloth of our heart

Dear weather chick (for those not keeping up I fired the dude this summer – pay attention, jeziz!),

You may as well pack up all the little bikinis you got this summer to impress the friendlies you picked up at the beach and tell all the hot little boy toys from the college crowd good bye because I’m sending you back to wherever the hell it is you came from.  I distinctly remember having a conversation with you over why the last guy was fired and it being because we live here on the beautiful coast of California. We expect moderate temperatures and beautiful sunny weather most of the year.  Sadly we realize the Fresnecks and Bacos come along with this, but it is a sacrifice we are willing to make for the quality of life and weather we love here.  You have failed miserably by letting your blond roots grow in (I specified red head for a reason) and letting the thermostat drop to a ass chilliling 30 degrees…. bringing frosty and his band of merry rolly-pollies to my town.  What was it I told you…. Skirts! I wear skirts and it is not fun to put on a skirt then walk outside and freeze your already non-existent ass off in 30 degree temperatures. I don’t know who paid you off but rest assured they will pay back in triplicate when I find them.  I have some frost bitten toes and other appendendages that will require creams and massaging…. good thing I’m not part of the fat frizzy hare briggade!

Enjoy your new home in east-jeziz nowhere and the cold that you take with you for the next six months.  I, on the other hand, will be finding Juan-Carlos to do my weather up Cabo style. He will be happy enough to be near me that he won’t fuck up like the rest of you have.

Best of luck little Windy Weather,
Sars

PS, Begging is not becoming and you no you cannot take any of the little poly boys with you to keep warm. And… No you can’t ask my bartenders how to make drinks properly and if you even think about Jameson where you are I will know it and send an ugly, evil, crazy bartender of the daytime to make you all the nasty things he has learned in his tenure just to watch you puke for his own ienjoyment.  Stay Classy, I mean it, because you really aren’t that big of a deal….

I think I have asked for this before (basic human skills), but it isn’t reality. I’m no closer to getting it now than the first time I asked.  Family, friends, school, holidays, work, hustle, bustle……….  Some days its like being on a carousel with evil horses from some horror movie.  You know the big black ones with the flames coming from their nostrils??? You know what I’m talking about (Think Lord of the Rings).  So much keeps happening and keeping it all straight without needing a straight jacket is becoming a chore.  Keeping the bitch-slap hand in check for the ones that forgot to read their manuals is more and more difficult all the time.

I know it isn’t possible but I think somehow, we should be given manuals at different intervals in life.  In your adolescence it would talk about pimples and pubes and bad hair days and personal hygiene and why boys tease the girls they like and why girls ignore the boys they like.  The ones for babies and even little kids exist somewhere (Dr. Spock spread his literary seed well).  They teach all about the diapers and colic and how to talk about the birds and bees, how to be and reveal the mystery of Santa, how to deal with overactive and under-active children. But that’s really where the good manuals end.  We need a updated or revised set.  When you hit teen-dom it would talk about sex and the do’s and don’ts that most parents are too afraid or embarrassed to say.  It would have a section on bullies and how even though they tease you and tell you you suck, it isn’t true.  The teen version would also start the manners and courtesy and communication lessons in life.  That is when you learn real respect, your adolescent and teen years.  Now realistically this is a parent’s job, not a book.  There shouldn’t be a need for a manual but sadly…. there really is.  Too many parents are forgetting to teach the basics.  They are producing mean and ugly humans that turn into mean and ugly adults.

When you become an adult, and I don’t mean a “woo-hoo I’m 18 and can eat ice cream for dinner everyday if I want” adult, but a real adult – the first time you have responsibility and have to pay a bill or get a collection notice because you forgot to pay a bill.  That time when you transition into a human not just a startling.  You are no longer a kid or teen who’s only job is to learn, but you are an adult human being that should have at least an inkling of how to be kind, show respect and courtesy, recognize that we are all different but that is a beautiful thing.  By this point you shouldn’t need a book to learn that words hurt and can cut deeper than knives.  But that isn’t the case.  A whole Britanica style set is needed to teach the basic skills with instructions and answers to the tough questions and reprimands for when you fuck up.  Where are those books? Can I pick them up on Amazon?  Can I put in a special order for people that never got even the first one?  And if people do have them can I unleash the bitch-slap when they forget what they learned?  Much like math, things need to be practiced to be retained.  I think instead of completely boycotting holidays (which is my inclination) I am gonna dole out the manuals.  Reminders that courtesy should be a trait that you don’t think about, but that comes naturally.  I think the reason I have such an aversion to the holidays (or one of the reasons anyway) is the lack of basic human skills.  There are so many humans that forget all the lessons from the basic manuals. They morph just because there is some celebration of a belated August birthday of a kid that most don’t even care about.  The courtesy and kindness and respect go out the window in favor of control and want and gimme, gimme, gimme.  People forget love and humanity. They think only of their list for whomever and whether or not they are going to have to get a gift for so-and-so, because damnit if that doesn’t cut into the me-me time and money.  I realize that many people are not this, they give all year, they care for friends and family and give because its natural.  Maybe I’ll give them a set or two to hand out.  But since this is an unrealistic pipe dream, I can only take care of me.  So no worrying about fat men in suits or magic babies, I’m gonna give out smiles and respect and kindness.  Wait??? Yeah, doing that already.  And now my mindpod is shuffling and I need to catch it before one of those stupid carols gets stuck on play.

Have you been asked who you are? I have. It’s a difficult question to answer. Its not a static answer. It never has been. All my life I’ve been that little sliver of the pie chart, the one that didn’t get absorbed into any of the other sections. (Why is it that piece always seemed to end up grey?) You had your popular kids, your sporty kids, your rich kids, your academics, the drama people, the stoners, the nerds, the aggies, the GLBT’s (though no one really let loose bein a trannie yet), your bullies and then there was the grey slice. As we moved along life’s path into the post college years, your twenties or early thirties, you still have the same groups, its just now they overlap more, go by different names and wear better shoes..

And the GLBT’s? You gotta love these guys. They’ve always known, only now, if they are strong they get to shout it and the bullies can kiss their successful asses. They are doctors, lawyers, teachers…. And on and on.

I’m sure I could come up with hundreds, but what of the grey slice? Where are they? Who are they? Do they get to identify with any of these? No. The fact is there are a couple of us out there that blend into the background even when we aren’t blending. We fit into every one of these groups including the ones people don’t like. This should be a good thing. This should make life easy, to get along with everyone. Until you have to answer the question “Who am I?”

Where do you begin? How do you start when you can’t remember a time when you did only what you wanted to? How do you teach yourself the rainbow when you are the blending shade of grey?

momma sed

Back in the day when I worked for evil blood-sucking whores (sorry thinking outloud) I wrote a blog wondering what had happened to the good ol’ days where passive aggression ruled the cube.  I sat in amazement as this touchy-feely kumbya fest unraveled around me all because I hurt someone’s feelings. Back then I was under pressure to perform, to produce.  Ten hour days were a norm and I didn’t bat an eye… I relished them. I was the 15%. Winds blow a different way and I’ve found that passive aggressive wall, er cube wall in my current office of governmental slacker mentality.  Produce the minimum, give your average so at seven hours and fifty-nine minutes the flood gates open and you can file out with the rest of the sheep to your barc-o-lounger in front of your plasma with your bud fucking lite. If you walk through the cube farm at ten past five all that’s heard is the hum of the tax dollar flowing through the electrical current into the computer equipment that almost no one is in front of. 

Kumbya-fest has been replaced with grievance meetings and administrative leave, union reps and early retirement. I will never again be called into a room, sat in the preverbal small chair and surrounded by a gaggle of women who will proceed to berate me with angry sob stories of how I’ve changed.  How I just don’t speak to them as kindly as I used to.  Of course, back then, I had a title and cool little business cards. Sometimes when I was handed down a directive I could delegate the shit work to people that made less and did the shit work.  I was not at the bottom of the chain. There were assistants that actually assisted. They took whatever task they were given and did it. They didn’t always like it… (or how they were shown or how their questions got answered) and who likes filing??? (If you raised your hand, call me I have some work for you! And some questions.) No one, but they did it because that was their job and saying “no, I don’t feel like it” was not an option.  Saying no meant looking for somewhere else to say no.  These days I am part of a bigger machine, one that is oiled with bureaucracy and runs on red tape.  No one gets fired without umpteen chances to screw things up worse.  If no one takes the time to take care of the bureaucratic bull shit they will remain firmly seated in their happy slacker world until they retire making more money for doing nothing than the guy who busts his ass everyday of his life doing manual labor.  They will sit complaining about how someone wasn’t kind when they asked them to do something they refused to do anyway, because it would cut into their online shopping or solitaire time. 85%

Do I think we should walk around being passive aggressive… not really.  Do I think we need touchy-feely love-ins… no.  But I think the middle ground of write it up and down until your fingers cramp and never solve anything sucks too. All the while the 15% of us that do 85% of the work continue to work.  More often than not we’re the recipient of a tirade or some form of passive aggression, from someone in that 85% who’s pissy because for once they had to pick up some slack and missed their e-bay auction cut off. Boo-hoo. Find a form and write me up for speaking un-kindly. Make a note that I laughed at something on the other side of your cube wall that you weren’t privy to and you don’t like it. Damn me for enjoying myself in spite of leaving my e-bay at home.  At the end of my day pulling 85% of the workload I discover its still there for tomorrow and the day after that. I will never be without work. Whether or not I feel productive today I can work on it tomorrow.  When five thirty comes around and I finally roll out the door I know I worked hard and stayed in that 15%. At the end of the day I get to hang out with my friends, share a good beer and a laugh while watching the sheep go by knowing  I deserve to bitch a little about the slacker, but only a little… sheep, they will still be there tomorrow too. and the day after that.

I haven’t written in a while and maybe that’s good. This post won’t make me popular, but then again… I don’t really care. Stop reading if you are worried… Yesterday I heard several people talk about and read several posts about Patriot Day. Why is the holiday to honor people who died on September 11, 2001, called Patriots Day? What is a “Patriot” anyway?

Patriot \Pa”tri*ot\ (p[=a]”tr[i^]*[o^]t; 277), n. [F. patriote;
cf. Sp. patriota, It. patriotto; all fr. Gr. patriw`ths a
fellow-countryman, fr. pa`trios established by forefathers,
fr. path`r father. See Father.]
One who loves his country, and zealously supports its
authority and interests. –Bp. Hall.
[1913 Webster]

By this definition I am not a patriot. I am in no way a zealous supporter of my country. I am more likely a zealous advocate for change in patriotism. And I can’t say that I love my country. I can tell you I’m pissed. People died and continue to die and its not about patriotism but politics.

This day is supposed to honor the 2993 that died as a result of the attacks on the world trade center on September 11, 2001. Humans in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in political cross hairs over oil we won’t even have for another 20 years. Are we sure they are patriots? Does dying by the hands (or body) of a “terrorist” make them patriots? What if the only real patriots were the firefighters and cops? And really… even some of them were probably not what’s considered a patriot. If you died in a “terrorist attack” would you want a patriot’s day to honor your death? What if you were fighting for revolution, hated the American government and happened to be flying to see your sister that day… now you are suddenly a patriot instead of an advocate for change. Your name is now associated with loving American interests, supporting its government (and Bush by proxy which would piss you off all the more). You are associated with America and what it stands for. You are now all that shit because you died by circumstance. You were not a patriot and wouldn’t want to be recognized as such, but you’ve been made into one for the rest of our written history because some asshole decided this day should be about ‘merica (fuck yeah) instead of about people.

If you want to honor the people that died that day, find a name that honors the people, not some fucking political agenda. Call it Never Forget Day (how many shirts did I see with Never Forget on it??) or Tragic Loss Day or some other name that conveys how badly it sucked to have people’s loved ones die like that. Oh wait… Some others know. Didn’t something similar happen before, not close to this scale or degree, but didn’t it? There was a “terrorist” attack on a federal building in Oklahoma. What of the people that died then? Are their deaths less “patriotic” because it wasn’t a foreigner that killed them? What about a holiday called Innocent Victims Day? And honor the infallible heroism shown by firefighters, police officers and the other emergency workers with a day of their own… one that shows the sacrifices some made by traveling from all parts of the country to help other humans. Maybe in that moment there was a note of patriotism, but the reality is if it hadn’t been “terrorists” but some other event that took lives, those same people would have come because people needed help.

This holiday doesn’t serve as remembrance of people but an event and a political agenda. You don’t hear talk about the people that died you hear about 9/11 and how tragic. The people that died are remembered everyday because someone hurts, someone feels loss, someone is left behind by their death.

So stop me if you've already been alerted or seen it or drop me a line. Better yet just send it on back – my sense of self, you know, who I am. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? Oh wait, Ferris had a firm grip on who he was at um 18 (right?). I think the only other people I know of besides Ferris that had any clue at 18 were Alex P. Keaton and Dexter. And notice the theme?? All of them are fictional of course (and perhaps slightly mental) because no one except the extremely rich being groomed for take over have the first fucking clue who they are at 18. Hell! Do we even know at 25? Sometimes maybe. But I'm not talking about your job, what you want to "do". We are not our jobs. It never ceases to amaze me how many people answer questions about themselves and what they like with a load of shit about what they do for work. I am not where I work or what I do to pay the bills. We are not our jobs. Don't get me wrong, if you love and are passionate about what you do and happen to make some cash for doin it, good on ya! You are the exception not the rule. That's a case where your job has come from you, not the other way. Anyhow, where was I pre-tangent? Oh yeah, who am I? I have no better idea at 34 than I did at 24. And just in case you are expecting some cool philosophical Sars type wrap up here, where I tie up all my questions with a cool bow (pink of course) uh no. I am seriously on a man er woman hunt. I need to find this self and sooner would be better. I realize no one else can actually help me locate it… but damn wouldn't that be cool? Or a vending machine? Maybe I can invent that 'serve self' then drop in a few coins and viola!

Okay. I know, I know…

Bueller? Bueller?

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

“The problem is we think we exist. We think our words are permanent and solid and stamp us forever. That’s not true. We write in the moment”
~Natalie Goldberg

Reading this has made a profound impact on the way I write and view writing as a whole. The feeling of disconnect is beginning to fade and the fingers are beginning to loosen. A post will soon follow.

I should be peppering you with stories of my childhood and how my mom did all these cool things and taught me all this awesome stuff that made me the woman I am today… I should be talking about how I think mother’s day is important and really we shouldn’t need a specified day to recognize the work our mothers (or mother figure… not all of us had nuclear moms) put in to raising us… I should be going on and on about the fabulous things I did to show the moms in my life how special they are. I should be doing a lot of things… Yes, I have stories from my childhood and times with my mother, not what you are thinking of. My mom is definitely a cool woman, worthy of all the kudos mom’s should get, and there is one thing she taught
me that has shaped part of me for sure “if at the end of your life you can count all of the true friends you’ve had on one hand, you are leaving a rich woman”. I’ve lived my life and shaped my friendships this way, it hurts. She didn’t tell me that part. None the less, we shouldn’t need a date on the calendar to tell our mom she is special, that we wouldn’t be here without her and for that we owe her our eternal thanks.

No, no… instead I sit here reflecting on my own life, probably more than I should. And I guess in a way it’s related to my mom and her shaping me and I can say I wrote a post for mother’s day after all :o) I’m thinking about friendship and the tightrope it can balance on. I have many, many (many – really did I stress this??) acquaintances. I am a social girl, that isn’t ugly (unfortunately that matters) and is social in a college town where the bartenders are mostly my age. I also have the advantage of being adopted as a local and knowing many of them by proxy (story for another day). I have a hand full of people I’d call my friends. Those people that
I hang out with from time to time and call up to chat about whatever. These are the people that I’d invite to a dinner party or maybe a reception if I were to have such an event (shudders and makes that sound with lips that can’t be spelled- kinda like brrr but a little deeper). These friends are not people that I could count at the end of my life. They won’t be there when I am having a nervous breakdown or just tired and need someone to go get a beer with me. These are not people who will give up their cocktail to be my designated driver. Then there are the close friends…
the ones that will go get a beer with you and still be your friend when their friend (that they’ve known longer- way longer) decides to act out some douche like shenanigans and drop your ass. These are the friends that will help you move and meet you for lunch. They are good friends. But they aren’t your confidant. Those are the true friends.

We all had one in high school – that best friend that we did everything with and looked ridiculous with and said we’d be prom dates with if they didn’t get asked by their dream date…. That person will have a spot in our treasure chest for always, whether or not they still have a gem there. Then there are those friends that you grow with as adults – the one you call at 3am because you can’t sleep so why should they?? or because you met the hottest man ever or slept with the hottest man ever or got dumped by the hottest man ever or wonder when you are going to meet the hottest man ever… its this friend that reminds you the hottest man ever need only be hot to you and you will know. This is the friend you talk to eleventeen times a day or one but contact is made and even though you only talked about the appointment to get your hair did on Tuesday, you talked – actual
talk… voice, not text. It’s a day to day thing. This is the friend you will call when you you find out your husband filed for divorce. This is the friend that will know to bring Ben & Jerry’s “Phish Food” when your dad dies and to just carry the phone to the car and come immediately to wherever you are when its your mom. This person will claim a finger at the end of our life, regardless of how far away that may be. These are the friends that make you rich. It may be one person the whole time, it may be a group of two or three, but their gems are the biggest ones in the chest. Every once in a while you think you lost one of those gems… that
beautiful pale blue topaz that was nestles so tightly in its spot for so long… you weep and mourn the loss of a treasure that you can never replace, but wait… just maybe, its got dislodged from its cozy little spot. You had that accident where your heart (I mean treasure box) got hit pretty hard from all sides and you just couldn’t triage fast enough….It isn’t the same gem and doesn’t fit where it once sat… but it still has its claim on your middle finger.

Maybe this is a mother’s day post after all. I’ve been hurt for giving unconditionally, just like my mom taught me. And just like she taught me… I wouldn’t change it.

I’ve been called out… or something like that. I’ve been asked to post 7 things about myself… Oddly enough, for someone who talks as much as I do and often uses my life as a subject, focusing on myself for the purpose of sharing is rather difficult. But since Sparticus Wore a Skirt requested and I love his little blog, I shall do my best. And try not to bore those that already know me…

When it comes to road trips, I prefer (see have to and will figure out a way to) to be the one driving. I get car sick really easily, plus I just get frustrated with other peoples driving abilities when it comes to the freeway. I am of the belief that you should always be moving forward… I also think that the left lane is for those who agree, it is not for cruising. I could go on and on but I’d work myself into frustration.

My favorite movie ever (ever, of all time) is The Color Purple. I can probably quote the whole thing word for word and I can most definitely sing “Miss Celie’s Blues”

I have fantastic legs! Probably my best feature. I once had a girl crawl across a bar floor (yuck!!) to get a closer look. Now that’s flattering even for us straight girls.

I love hearts. I love them enough that I have three tattooed on my body at present with plans to have more. They each represent a very powerful presence in my life: on my side is the heart that says seeker of truth… I think that is pretty self explanitory. On the outside of my right arm as the bottom of an eventual sleeve is a huge winged heart with a halo being held up by a set of horns… a friend told me this symbolized me completely and whould draw it everytime she wrote me or gave me anything that was hand written. She said I was the “good one” (and not in a goody-two-shoes way, but in the always be there to take care of you way) but there was a little bit of mischeif there and I think I agree. The last is on the underside of that same arm, it’s a heart bound by wire and dying at the bottom, but the top is pink and perfect. It’s from a drawing on a 1902 album and it’s my brother’s heart (at least it once was, may still be). He has the exact same tattoo in the same spot… it is my favorite as is he. So I had Love and Solidarity scripted around it, love for me, solidarity for him.

I love shoes! (I know you are shocked by this) The reason I started my obsession with shoeas is because my feet don’t change size. I had a bout of thyroid (coupled with evel husband) disorder and had a nice flux in weight. Shoes were always a safe purchase.

I love to sing and don’t even suck at it. But because I’m not cool enough to get away with standing behind the drummer and never talking about myself, keeps me from doing it for real.

While I can’t say I’ve been with the same guy since I was 21… I have waited almost six years for the one I’ve got. Through ugly relationships (for both of us) the flame never died, he waited and watched… I know, gross… but in such a good way!!!