I
was attempting to blog last night but my mind puttered out and decided that it
didn’t feel like doing anything except go to Relationship Crapola Land. That’d be great if I had something new or
constructive to say. Or even that I was
in a great relationship and here’s me and my significant other going out to
dinner/staying in bed with a book/parallel playing while I am on the computer
and he watches tv/or walking together, gently caressing fingers.
Sorry,
can’t offer any of that up. Not even for
myself to read because it would have to be labeled fictitious. So fine, I was in a mood with writer’s block
bonus. More importantly, I noticed that
the first things onto the screen were relationship type complaints. I know now that the partner of a narcissist
really suffers…suffers in a different way than the narcissist…who usually will
not know or acknowledge what they are doing.
The first thing that should have concerned me in my writings last night was
that of the impending Skype session to see my grandpyre’s first birthday! Being three hours behind my time, I was anticipatoried
out and closed my eyes until I got the text to get on the computer. And it was awesome. I watched that little guy wander all over the
room, enjoying his newfound mobile freedom.
He was outta here, bitches! He was
excited, there were colorful toys all over the place and I got to see him on
his first birthday. Monumentous,
technology. Except that they couldn’t
see me. Looks like I could have left my
hair up and avoided the extra pouf of makeup without doing harm.
Today’s
it is the motions. All I could think
when I woke up was, Must get up and work.
And I work from home today so that’s A-mazing! Yayuh! However,
I find it tougher and tougher to get out of bed lately. I’m getting out, it’s just harder. But
for some reason, way later in the day, I have no problem driving to the track
to walk for nearly an hour.
I
gotta keep the conversation minimal with Flip.
I set out my fancy set of
teeth to bite the bait when it is offered.
I tell myself that I’ll open the email, I’ll read it and then just not
answer it if it is going to be derogatory or if I find myself needing to defend
myself against his untruths about me.
Ego
Fail. 90% of the time. Other times I’m stellar about closing it back
up and ignoring it. I think it is
because I am trying too hard to make sure he hears the real story before he
gives his version to the next girl. I
know those stories. I’ve heard
them. With his description, rarely do
any of his exes come off as sound, moral people. I can see that I’m getting thrown into that
bucket too which makes me respond. No!
Don’t tell your futures that I was THIS and THAT! That’s wrong!
I tried so hard to give you everything! Then my ego notes that the deaf ears are
still attached to the typing fingers pointing at me in CAPS that I am indeed
THIS and THAT even though I’ve explained myself with rationale. The Earth is Flat again. Deflate.
So
onward for now. My mind is mush, I feel
like someone put Monsanto cotton in my head.
It’s not even original mush. It’s
sterile, infected, no original thought mush.
I
recently thought about a woman who was mentioned on a PBS airing of Ken Burns’
Prohibition. She was a journalist in the
1920s and went by the pseudonym of “Lipstick”.
She wrote saucy details about the nightlife in clubs and speakeasies. And of course, she was a SHE. Those were the only details that I could
remember. However, Google to the rescue in
my ADHD moment of need. Lois Long is her
name, springing forth both the use of her name for Flapper ha-has and a wonderment
of whether or not the creator of Lois Lane had heard of her. She did write for the New Yorker, after
all.
My
intrigue so far leads me only to archives of the New Yorker. They do allow me to read one grouping of articles
that spans from 1937 through 1946 , but then they want me to you know…commit…subscribe! I’ll read what I can in the meantime. What is noted is that for a gal who enjoyed
being Flapperish and loving the night life, she did not resonate with the idea
of women being photographed from or even
really allow clothes to demonstrate what we now embrace as Boo-tay. As Miz Long (if you’re nas-tay!) says, “Women,
though less favored structurally by Nature, insist on tucking in their shirts
and buying waist-length sweaters, and seem to take masochistic pleasure in
being seen (and even photographed) from the rear. It passes my understanding.”
Now
of course, the Rear is the Starbucks of the body. People can’t get enough of it. We spend so much time thinking about it,
working for it, staring at and coveting other butts. Wonder what she would have thought of a whole
society thinking that butts are the living end.
