I am feeling sassy, so I've changed my font. I'm more inclined to change my hair, but I'd have to move to do that, and I am fairly confident I've lingered so long I am adhered to the chair.
And so, I've come upon a phrase that I've decided to abhor. Yes, abhor. A strong word, stronger than the "dislike," so many are campaigning for on Facebook. Don't give me a "dislike," give me an "abhor," especially since I am an animal advocate, with many like-minded FB friends, and I "abhor," the posts I see about abused animals, and those who torture animals for fashion.
So, on to the phrase.
Today was a splendid day. I interviewed for a job I actually want. Now, when one needs a job during a time when there is one job for every two-thousand people who need it, the odds of interviewing for a job you want are about equal to finding a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes miss marked at $6.39.
Like many, I've been practicing other random phrases in preparation of my new career, such as, "would you like fries with that?" "Paper or plastic?" I mean no offense to anyone who has such a career. I bow to you. You are essential personnel, and I don't think I could do your job.
So, anyhow, back to my splendid day. I am already thinking about what I will wear to this job. At what point can I fly my freak flag? Is one week in too soon for the flowered reading glasses? Is one month in too soon for wearing Hello Kitty pencils in my up do?
I have declared my intentions to the Universe. I felt the positive vibe in this workplace, and I've decided I must have this job. I was glowing, happy, singing to Tom Petty and feeling like Tom Cruise. Until......... the phrase.
"Don't get your hopes up."
Uh huh. Seriously?
Why the hell not?
What would life be without getting our hopes up? We buy lottery tickets. Why? So we can recycle them the following day? No, so we can, for a few hours, "get our hopes up." I buy a ticket, and I'm practically signing on the dotted line for a classic VW Bus. Of course I'm going to win. Why not me?
Anyone who says, "don't get your hopes up," to another person should be packaged with fries and sold to cannibals. Never, ever tell someone not to get their hopes up. Perhaps hope is all they have.
Poo poo on you naysayers......
Tiara
A real diva can rock a tiara or a Carhart!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
The Traveling Diva
And so I've become a gypsy of sorts, something I once found thrilling, and now find dysfunctional. I live out of a Chevy Blazer and two suitcases, and sleep where my brother once slept as a child. When dawn breaks I look out a window that should be familiar, yet isn't.
I once stood there, behind the drapes, while my brother slept. He woke, I jumped out, screaming something original, like "boo." I don't remember what happened next. I assume it probably involved an instrument of discipline known as "the stick." I'm sure I got it, and although I no longer lurk behind anyone's drapes, for that one moment, the threat of "the stick" was worth it. I feel bad for what I did to my brother, although I suspect he's long since forgotten that moment. I haven't. It makes me smile deviously, and reminds me that I'm not as far from home as I think.
Once a week I make a sad journey, traveling north, along a road I know well. I ascend a familiar hill, and remnants of winter's savagery crunch beneath the tires of my old truck. My heart beats rapidly those last few miles, as I approach the cabin where I have left my heart.
No one seems to understand my connection to this place, nor do I, at times. But it is where I am meant to be, and there is something important I must do there. This is something I accept as absolute truth. It has become my new fight, to return to this place where laughter lingers, and dog hair floats of its own volition past an open window.
I leave the safety of my vehicle and tread quietly to the front door. The key objects, but only slightly, and I open the door. It smells like kerosene and sadness. The eyes of numerous Boyd's Bears meet mine. They seem to say, "we've missed you, and we could use a bath." The couch sits in the center of an empty room. No cats adorn its sagging back. This is odd, for me, and for the couch, something neither of us has ever known.
The acrid smell of the kerosene assaults me, although it is fading, and my eyes water. I blame the oil, yet I know it is the sting of emotion and not any pollutant.
I am home, if only for a moment. I complete what task I have come to do, and turn to leave. "I will be back," I whisper. I cannot explain how I know this. I just do.
I once stood there, behind the drapes, while my brother slept. He woke, I jumped out, screaming something original, like "boo." I don't remember what happened next. I assume it probably involved an instrument of discipline known as "the stick." I'm sure I got it, and although I no longer lurk behind anyone's drapes, for that one moment, the threat of "the stick" was worth it. I feel bad for what I did to my brother, although I suspect he's long since forgotten that moment. I haven't. It makes me smile deviously, and reminds me that I'm not as far from home as I think.
Once a week I make a sad journey, traveling north, along a road I know well. I ascend a familiar hill, and remnants of winter's savagery crunch beneath the tires of my old truck. My heart beats rapidly those last few miles, as I approach the cabin where I have left my heart.
No one seems to understand my connection to this place, nor do I, at times. But it is where I am meant to be, and there is something important I must do there. This is something I accept as absolute truth. It has become my new fight, to return to this place where laughter lingers, and dog hair floats of its own volition past an open window.
I leave the safety of my vehicle and tread quietly to the front door. The key objects, but only slightly, and I open the door. It smells like kerosene and sadness. The eyes of numerous Boyd's Bears meet mine. They seem to say, "we've missed you, and we could use a bath." The couch sits in the center of an empty room. No cats adorn its sagging back. This is odd, for me, and for the couch, something neither of us has ever known.
The acrid smell of the kerosene assaults me, although it is fading, and my eyes water. I blame the oil, yet I know it is the sting of emotion and not any pollutant.
I am home, if only for a moment. I complete what task I have come to do, and turn to leave. "I will be back," I whisper. I cannot explain how I know this. I just do.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Humor will soften despair, and if that doesn't work - drink!
And so, here I am, temporarily homeless. Until one is temporarily homeless, one cannot fathom what this is like. It is a sad story, one that did not have to happen. Although, as sad as I am over my own situation, I cannot help but feel for the thousands of people who are in shelters in Japan, because their homes are also lost, and to a disaster much more grave.
My disaster is small, unless I measure it against only my experiences. Then it is massive. It is massive because it is happening to me. It is massive because my home sits quiet and sad, on a beautiful spring day. A ruined cabin, surrounded by the splendor of a world becoming reborn. Wow, when I say it like that, I want to cry, but I'm wearing makeup and WalMart raised the price, so I shall withhold my tears until a later time.
Eight days. Eight days since I was forced from my home in the pouring rain, with seven frightened pets crammed into a Chevy, fleeing to my mother's home. Now, if Mama lived in a Doublewide, we'd have a damn good country song here. But, she lives in a stick built home, and even set to a catchy tune, it lacks flair. My career in country music is over before it's begun. (There's the humor, in case you missed it.)
So, back to the disaster. Oil spill. (I just said it like I was the Tinman. It still sucks, but at least I'm smiling now.) Fifty to one hundred gallons of overly-priced, ought-to-be-filled-with-gold-flakes, kerosene, dumped into my basement. I can't get into why it happened, because that isn't blog worthy. I will say that most of it isn't there anymore. The sump pump took care of it, pumping it into the yard and the creek. Now this is a pretty bad thing. The DEC is out there organizing a major clean up, and I hope everyone watches their step because the snow melted, and the amount of dog shit is out numbering the amount of kerosene by two-to-one. All right, before this post becomes a novella, or worse yet, a novel, I'll get to wrapping it up. Now, I do not by ANY means find this spill funny. It is a major disaster that didn't have to happen, that's ruined my house, my belongings, and screwed the environment worse than it normally is. But, that being said, when that sump pump pumped out that pink kerosene, into the hose the lawn guy ran over last year, it must have looked like the Bellagio, a great pink fountain befitting to a pink-tiara-wearing, broken hearted, diva.
My disaster is small, unless I measure it against only my experiences. Then it is massive. It is massive because it is happening to me. It is massive because my home sits quiet and sad, on a beautiful spring day. A ruined cabin, surrounded by the splendor of a world becoming reborn. Wow, when I say it like that, I want to cry, but I'm wearing makeup and WalMart raised the price, so I shall withhold my tears until a later time.
Eight days. Eight days since I was forced from my home in the pouring rain, with seven frightened pets crammed into a Chevy, fleeing to my mother's home. Now, if Mama lived in a Doublewide, we'd have a damn good country song here. But, she lives in a stick built home, and even set to a catchy tune, it lacks flair. My career in country music is over before it's begun. (There's the humor, in case you missed it.)
So, back to the disaster. Oil spill. (I just said it like I was the Tinman. It still sucks, but at least I'm smiling now.) Fifty to one hundred gallons of overly-priced, ought-to-be-filled-with-gold-flakes, kerosene, dumped into my basement. I can't get into why it happened, because that isn't blog worthy. I will say that most of it isn't there anymore. The sump pump took care of it, pumping it into the yard and the creek. Now this is a pretty bad thing. The DEC is out there organizing a major clean up, and I hope everyone watches their step because the snow melted, and the amount of dog shit is out numbering the amount of kerosene by two-to-one. All right, before this post becomes a novella, or worse yet, a novel, I'll get to wrapping it up. Now, I do not by ANY means find this spill funny. It is a major disaster that didn't have to happen, that's ruined my house, my belongings, and screwed the environment worse than it normally is. But, that being said, when that sump pump pumped out that pink kerosene, into the hose the lawn guy ran over last year, it must have looked like the Bellagio, a great pink fountain befitting to a pink-tiara-wearing, broken hearted, diva.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Introduction to the Single Diva's Guide to Humorous Living
Some years back, I had a splendid idea. You know the kind, those brilliant flashes through our gray matter that start with "wow," and conclude with "what was I thinking?"
It happened in 2001 when I saw a simple cabin, tucked into the woods, surrounded by splendor previously seen only by Norman Rockwell. The day was sunny. I was wearing my rose-colored glasses. I thought to myself, "I can do this. I can take this fixer-upper and turn it into something incredible."
Sadly, I did that. I turned into a sadder version of the ready-to-be-condemned money pit it was in 2001. Living here has taught me survival skills CBS never touched on. It's made me laugh, and cry, and I've redefined words such as stupid, crazy, and most of all, courageous.
I close my eyes and the words "buyer's remorse," flash behind my lids like a half-lit neon sign, on a greasy spoon diner in the middle of nowhere.
It's been an amazing journey I must write down. If I didn't, I wouldn't believe most of it had happened. I'll start here, recalling random moments of "someone shoot me," for the world to see.
It happened in 2001 when I saw a simple cabin, tucked into the woods, surrounded by splendor previously seen only by Norman Rockwell. The day was sunny. I was wearing my rose-colored glasses. I thought to myself, "I can do this. I can take this fixer-upper and turn it into something incredible."
Sadly, I did that. I turned into a sadder version of the ready-to-be-condemned money pit it was in 2001. Living here has taught me survival skills CBS never touched on. It's made me laugh, and cry, and I've redefined words such as stupid, crazy, and most of all, courageous.
I close my eyes and the words "buyer's remorse," flash behind my lids like a half-lit neon sign, on a greasy spoon diner in the middle of nowhere.
It's been an amazing journey I must write down. If I didn't, I wouldn't believe most of it had happened. I'll start here, recalling random moments of "someone shoot me," for the world to see.
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