She, about wanting to go into psychology, I, about how and why I decided to first get a management degree and then pursue my dreams writing. I looked up and we’d been talking for about forty five minutes. My teaching dreams never cease because of days like this. Of course I told her to follow her dreams—but before she did so to look long and hard at what she wanted, had to have—to survive.

I miss teaching for times like this. But I do love love love my job. Sometimes, things change.

Friday I was sick—so it put me behind, I guess I’m still recovering, but it really was a beautiful day yesterday, real simple. I took my kid for a hair cut and slept for a few hours. I like to pinpoint the days I’m really happy because a lot of times you don’t get them as often as you’d like. I woke happy, I stayed happy, and I went to sleep happy.

Picture from: avadakedavraurmother.tumblr.com

Few more edits back for clients this week and a final manuscript due. Like I said, happy.

We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems—the ones that make you truly who you are—that we’re ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person—someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, “This is the problem I want to have.”

—Galway Kinnell

What is this? Who am I now? If I like her better does that mean who I was wasn’t real at all? What if I made myself up? Does this make me a fiction writer?  What if I look for the worst to ‘save face,’ but what if it’s steady? Am I going to ruin it now? What if I fall apart? What if it never comes together? What if it comes together as I fall apart?  Does it matter? When it stays the same doesn’t it still change? What if I want nothing to change? How many dishes can I break a year and still stay sane? Anybody know a good body shop, my car needs work? I need a new car. I want books that need a ladder to get to in my house. I wanna share my wishlist. I think he might listen. I really mind the turbulence, I’m ready for the landing. I’m really going to try my damnedest. This is the problem I want to have.

Walking up, she knows my coffee “Aren’t you happy it’s Friday?”

Writing late, when edits are finally ready, his voice mails.

When I know I can.

Like-minded individuals.

The Weeknd; the singer and the ending of a busy week. If you haven’t heard this guy, go jump.

A clean living room, never mind the rest of the house.  Sweet Sleep. Chirping. My puppy’s nose.

Someone genuinely asking how are you?

 ”Stop looking for the floor to cave—everything’s ok” ~My best friend

Try as I might, I can’t get any relaxation. This is the spa I’ve been dreaming of. MmmMMmm.

Business is good. School is ending. Life is happily full of ruckus. But what am I dreaming of? Relaxation. Kay Redfield Jamison said in“An Unquiet Mind,”  “We all move uneasily within our own restraints.” Maybe I cried when David died of a heart attack (her love), but only because the foreshadowing was done in such a subtle way. It’s the subtle things that drive me.

Another favorite of lines was when Jamison quoted an anthology about love:

Thank you for a lovely weekend.

They tell me it rained.

Awww, I want that. I need that.

P.s. On the verge of some really big subtle things. Really big. Spoken like the true oxymoronic extremist I am.

Broke my cell this week and only some contacts carried over to the new one. If I had your number and you haven’t spoken to me in a while…

it’s likely I don’t have your number any more which means we aren’t going to be friends much now are we?

Post scriptum:

I am dreaming of…

Wearing these:

Then relaxation like such:

And this beautifully designed bedroom (Gwyneth Paltrow doesn’t mind, really we go way back)

Apparently I like things that hang and swing in my house, lmao!!!

Secret: I’ve never had a macaroon and I’m not having one until I get to Paris. I’ve never been to Paris.

One of my favorite movies of all time: “Closer,” Alice says this.

She asks about why come she can’t see the love? Touch it, feel it. Then she repeats that she can hear it—but that hearing it is easy. Those words are easy.

Tell me some hard words, if any words.

Make me speechless. Heart swerving, then plunging.  The hurdle, twitch.

I want to do the splits on it. Somersault into a soaring enormous and ask him what took him so long?

I want to see it, feel it, touch it. I don’t want to hear it or hear about it anymore.
I want it sinking in my pores, I want to breathe it, be it.

I don’t want it to be easy, I want it to be uphill so I know what sleeping in is like.
I want it to hit me like an implosion. Locking my legs around it. Like plumdrops.

I want it to be so awfully good it goes stale if not immediate. Mean and fighting like rocket ship tears.

Hurry.

I don’t want  fear. I want to speak it into resistance, make it persistent and lengthy.

I want it to stay like a pose, pastel roses on my pillow. I want to be warm.
To write it into me until my joints are sore. sworn. sure.

Until the hugs take longer seconds, until stares are in sync with a later perpetuum.
Until I bloom and he shivers. When I wanderlust, he’s with me.

Until I can do nothing but call off my streetlights, blink, kiss.

I was about seven when my Mom got me a hamster. I named her Chrissy. Light brown, sorta fat, cute as a little talking chipmunk. Mind you—this is coming from a person that’s terrified of rats, roaches, spiders, and everything creepy. At first, she used to snip at me. Nip my fingertips wildly. Then I got some hamster treats in psychedelic colors and all was well in the world. I know little animals aren’t smart generally, but this one likely had a high IQ level. Seriously. Chrissy was brilliant and organized. Chrissy had bucky white teeth like she brushed them with Colgate. She didn’t muck up her cage like other hamsters I’d seen, and she even twirled her tiny hands around her face to clean herself! [Later I realized all hamsters do this] When she got her hamster snacks, she separated them by kind. Sunflowers, random nuggets, etc.  This thing was cute—ity bity and she’d curl up into a ball in the palm of my hand and fall asleep regularly. Like she gained trust in me. Sometimes she fell asleep on her back while I was petting her. I held her all the time. I put her in this clear little medicine ball with a small doorway, and let her run around my room while I studied. I’m sure we had many other good times, but that’s what I can remember.

It was a slow-growing affection. Then, I fell in love with the little thing.

Then one day I loved her so much I gave her a raisin as a treat. (Hey, it looked just like the trail mix she was already eating.) I saw her stomach boil sideways unnaturally, then I saw her keel over. She still moved around a bit but I ran to get Mom. All I remember next was I started crying, then I took a short nap. When I got up Chrissy was running amuck in her cage and when I went to pick her up to apologize for possibly making her sick—she bit my finger—hard! I was bleeding.

When I went to hold her she squiggled out of my hands so determined. When I put her in her exercise ball she wouldn’t move around and explore. She just sat there.

All of the things that made this hamster adorable to me were gone. She wasn’t cuddly. She wasn’t the same little cute face I could play with. I kept trying to make her behave right again, but she just wouldn’t. Then one day I looked at her teeth. They were yellow and big! Immediately I stomped in to my Mom exclaiming

“Where is Chrissy?! This is not my hamster!!!”

Mom explained to me that it was Chrissy and that all was ok, not to worry.

I didn’t like the New Chrissy, but it didn’t matter because not too soon after New Chrissy escaped and was not ever found.

A couple of years ago I was having wine with my Mother (as an adult) and I asked her what had happened to Chrissy. She looked at me big-eyed and bursty and said

“Gyyyyrl, that hamster had died and I ain’t know what to tell you!”

We laughed about it, but after, I realized how hard it is to tell the truth when you know what you will say will hurt someone you don’t want to hurt. Mom had shot out to the store and grabbed a look-alike of Chrissy and plopped her in Chrissy’s cage to avoid explaining death to me. If a person is prepared, it still hurts, it just hurts a lot less, making it worth it to communicate beforehand. What might have been better? Killing my fairytale. Getting me to accept the reality, the possibility early on of what is to come.  Teaching me that the hamster wasn’t going to last forever anyway, and, perhaps teaching me that she needn’t have raisins. Communication is the key, the lock and the Dropbox.

Photo by JoyHey

Yes, perhaps some casual and comfortable conversation easing me into the reality that hamsters won’t live forever. I was young, but the blatant lie and confusion? It sets me up to fall down.

Slow and concentrated.

This is the way we should talk to the people we care about. This is the way we should communicate with each other. Slowly, and then all at once. This is the way we prepare someone for what is to come. Slowly, and then all at once. This is the way we teach them how to grow with us. Slowly, and then all at once. This is how we avoid confusion and disappointment, “we man up.” We become responsible for ourselves, our actions, and the presentations and perceptions we’re exposing. Slowly, and then all at once. This is the way we learn how to trust, slowly, then all at once. This is the way we discuss things like adults. Slowly, and then all at once.

This is the way I want to fall in love.  Slowly, and then all at once.

The more lessons I’ve learned the hard way, the more lessons I’ve kept. How do I like my information? —Sugar-coated and straightforwardly oxymoronic. Yes. The truth doesn’t set you free, but it helps you sleep—and that’s kindove the same thing.

Who can help it?

The natural progression of things. Ebb and Flo. Eventually you’re showering and peeing together (ewk!) the love is “bunny nosey posie.” Coos and spooning. Fall asleep holding each other without any realistic idea that it’s definitely going to get hot like two obnoxious kissie-poo bears cuddling in the middle of a microfiber double down comforter might get. Oh M, f’in’ gee.

You’re comfortable. There’s the point in the part of the relationship that begins a slow pitocin drip of complacency. The quick-death of a relationship. This is where everything you’ve worked so hard for goes straight down the chute. He conveniently forgets to call as often or keep to the same level of esteem as he once had about the relationship. She conveniently forgets to dress up, cook dinner, or put out. It just isn’t the same. So what in the interest of preparation and prevention can one do to avoid this? Since we’re all just dyyyyyyyyying to fall in love and get trapped in that one-way street?

Allow me please, to share what this work-in-progress 2.5 year psych drop out + two faulty engagements + single-parent home raised (after 15 yrs old) + the fall of one of my very best friend and mentor’s marriage has taught me thus far… and I do mean”work-in-progress”

Trying is EVERYTHING. The try matters more than ANYTHING.

Here are 5 ways to prevent that from happening.

1. Get to KNOW a person AFTER you know them well enough already. Ask her her second favorite color. Ask him where his favorite place to go as a kid was. Ask if there were anything else professionally your partner could be in the world, what it would be? What about where you two could go? Find out if your alter egos are compatible. Find out if there’s something that you don’t know how to do and she does, if she’ll show you. Everyone loves to feel needed. Ask him what he thinks about himself. Pry, flirt, and make everything you do unexpected.
2. Plan something. A trip. An event. Projects. Block out the world together and learn how to share like you’re five years old again.
3. Don’t forget your “self-love,” any person will appreciate if you can balance doing what’s best for you and still make them a high priority.
4. Yes, it is true you’re only as good as your worst day, but if your worst day is every day… or if you are one of those women who have rollers and pajamas on every time this man comes over… then don’t be surprised when he is out with “the boys for a drink or two,” and know, there’s always other women involved in that “night out.” You just want to make sure you have a place your guy craves to come home to. Keyword craves. Same for you guys. Spruce up a bit. I mean, no one has to look like ~summerfireflies~ in the morning or every single time you see them; but there’s nothing less intriguing than a man wearing his favorite hole-y sweatshirt with the bleach stain—out on a date. {insert gawk face here}
5.  And seriously, if you remember nothing, at least “please be interesting.”

P.s if you don’t, y’all will be bored and complacent and your ass will end up like this:

How do I know so well you ask? Because I am that picture! Lol.

O, and by the way: Marie Clayton knows I love her work! Find her and the above photos at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/marielclayton/

Is there such a thing as perfect timing? Ok, maybe not perfect but what about mediocre timing? If someone asks you for a favor after a hot bath, after you’ve eaten, and your mind is rather relaxed—aren’t you more inclined?

I’m starting to believe in the world of MOP.

I made that up. But everything is all about marketing, opportunity, and perspective. “The lure of the distant and the difficult is deceptive. The great opportunity is where you are.” Yes, Burroughs, was another of my loves.

*

Marketing—

In the way we advertise ourselves. In our confidence, in our pep. I’m usually called chipper or spunky, or as my tagline announces… ‘Mean as a cupcake.’ But, really, in my opinion our personalities make us furthermore desirable after the looks have worn and the newness fades. It’s the way we market ourselves, the value we put in ourselves. Not the power we let others give or take from us.

*

Opportunity—

I’m talking about timing, conquering fear, adrenaline, going for what you know you want. Making way for the fail, the trip, or the fly. The way we face it is the way we come out of it. I’ll never forget what a friend of mine said when I applied to a college (obviously the next one I got in) and I didn’t get accepted in:

“I know you got in this time, but I’m more proud of how you brushed your knees off last time.”

Or maybe my all time x lover Bukowski said it best, with reverse psychology and sarcasm.

“It was true that I didn’t have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?”

—Charles Bukowski, Factotum

*

Perspective—

“I think you can love a person too much.

You put someone up on a pedestal, and all of a sudden, from that perspective, you notice what’s wrong – a hair out of place, a run in a stocking, a broken bone. You spend all your time and energy making it right, and all the while, you are falling apart yourself. You don’t even realize what you look like, how far you’ve deteriorated, because you only have eyes for someone else.”
―Jodi Picoult, Handle With Care

*

I’ve let opportunity slip, I’ve left the glass slipper—no prince showed.  I’ve thought about it before. That maybe if I’d been in a prior relationship at any other time; it might have worked out. I’ve prayed, hoped, self-helped, sought counsel, psych, pillow screamed, pop pill—plopt dat *ss down on the couch and pouted, stopped, shouted, stomped off. Ran away on sabbaticals for days and days without contact, SOS soon I’m licking my wounds right now. Planned for the worst, and hoped for the best type of psychoanalytical reverse inverse ~comatosis~. And all I can come up with is this:

Enough already. Because most of the things I’ve hesitated for I’ve lost. Most of the things I’ve gone for I’ve gotten. Most of my gut feelings were right about things that were wrong, but right about things that were right. I’ve lived by Mark Twain when he said to “Always acknowledge a fault. This will throw those in authority off their guard and give you an opportunity to commit more.”

I’ve french kissed frogs a few times. They turned into monkeys, actually. Bored of the inevitable. Thought about forever, then went out of touch. In an unquenchable thirst for someone to take me house shopping, I’ve found myself—utterly afraid to opportunize anything, it’s quite shiteous, really. Maybe my timing is off? Maybe if I sleep more he’ll wake me with a kiss. Have I been poisoned? It’s my party and I can cry if I want to.

They say patience is a virtue, but really, am I missing my window of opportunity because I’m climbing my pretty legs out of it?

Ever heard of “Stop talking about it and just do it”  ?!? …Well, this poster is the epitome of what I mean.

I grew up in a household wholesomely committed to cursing. Stump your toe, “fuuuuuuuck!” Left the bath water on… “Goodddddamit~” Walk in and the dishes haven’t been done, “So what the fuck you been doin’ all day when I wasn’t here?” [Southern accent courtesy of my Ma, from Baton Rouge, Louisiana]

So now as I attempt to re-program myself to live the life I’ve always wanted, some of the hardest things have been:

1. Giving up coffee (I am not doing well at this)
2. Finishing the monstrous amount of books I’ve set for myself
3. Curbing my cursing

My Ma is the sweetest curse-a-holic you could ever dream up. She’d curse for no reason—the type of person you want on your reality show. She’d say something like “sit your fine ass down and tell me about it,” or when I tried on make-up for the first time, her exact words were “So you think you fucking cute?” My all-time personal favorite, when something didn’t sound right to her she’d say “You better go sit in a fucking chair about it,” as she urged me to seek the counseling even she never received. The best part was after she said anything with those curse words in it, she’d cock her head back and laughhhhh at herself. This is what I grew up with, every day. My Dad? Well, he is more of a “curse when and only if needed” type. I’m sure he was a cursing sailor behind doors, but that was never for me to know. I’ve heard him say maybe five curse words in my entire life. At one point he was in the military, a professional chef, and an athlete. He’s traveled and owned a graphics company. He was always a profuse reader and he speaks five languages, (he claims they all come back to him when people speak to him in said language). Talk about driven. The only time I’ve ever left my city for longer than a week has been when I’ve had to for work. How many vacations have I taken in my life? 2.

The above poster. I couldn’t refuse.

My favorites are: Learn To Take Some Fucking Criticism and Believe In Your Fucking Self.

Maybe because these have also been the hardest for me.

Here goes I. Back to my attempt at not saying any bad fucking words. Back to reading Kay Redfield Jamison’s “An Unquiet Mind.” Back to refining my last genre submission before I graduate. Holy fuckerninnies. I’m graduating from my masters program in two months. All the nights I’ve been painfully tired and stayed up all fucking night, yes, sometimes the right word really is “fuck.” Appropriately placed, and properly used.