Starter Notes

Here are some old 'starter' notes I found for a one-woman-show that I've been dreaming up in my head, off and on, for YEARS. There are punctuation and grammar errors all over it, but I'm just copy-and-pasting it as-is for now, to make sure it never gets lost again, and to get any kind of feedback anyone wants to offer. Since it's now been re-discovered, I think I may take some time to work on it some more sometime soon. :)

INTRODUCTION

I am standing almost naked before you today not because I feel pride in my body, because I am not proud. The fact that I am not proud does not mean that I am ashamed, because I am not ashamed. I am just here. The residue of who I have been and the truth of who I am, and the foreshadowing of who I may become has accompanied me here today in the scars and the hanging flesh and the mounds of fat and generous curves of my body, and everywhere I go, I take them with me, and I refuse to let them or my perceptions of them or your perceptions of them keep me from showing up. Because not living the life I want starting now is a lie I matter too much to willingly harbor a cancerous lie in my ample flesh and you are too sacred to be lied to. So, here I am, and there you are.

For some of you, it may be hard to see what I stand here exposing. If it’s uncomfortable to look, then don’t look. Tonight is not about discomfort, yours or mine. Although I can just about guarantee that none of you is the least comfortable person in the room right now. It is about getting down and dirty with the naked truth, and that takes more than one evening with a poorly-lit over-exposed fat chick to accomplish. It’s just one holy night we are privileged to spend together, and I thank you for this gift.

FAT RAP

Plus-size, super-size

Curvy, Queen-size

Lard ass, Thunder thighs

Chunky, Chubby

Portly, Tubby

Stout and round, Soft, not hard

Economy-size, Tub o’ Lard

Fatty fatty two-by-four

Cant’s get through the kitchen door

Ate Wisconsin. Wants some more

Heifer

Cow

Pig

Sow

Wants her dinner

Get out now!

Overweight and Undertall

Gotta walk sideways through the hall

BBW, Rubenesque

Healthy? Abundant? Well-endowed? Blessed?

Obese, Big, Adipose

Large, in charge, Voluptuous

Big Boned, Sturdy, Thick, and Wide

Always 'It' (too big to hide)

Hippo hips, Bubble butt

Mouth don’t ever seem to shut

Always the funny one, never moody

With her double-wide, Tons o’ Fun, Ghetto bootie

Always got a strapped on a bag of feed

Built for comfort, not for speed

More cushion

for the pushin'

An easy lay out of desperation

But who would want to have a relation--

-Ship. With a girl so fat

Can’t show up at the club with her lookin’ like that

So thick in the middle, can’t sit in a booth

The girl gotta have more than just one sweet tooth

It’s a shame. She has such a pretty face.

Better set out the metal chairs, just in case.

Frumpy Dumpy Plump

Lumpy Bumpy Rump

Do you really need to eat that?

She’ll have a dressing that’s low-fat

Just learn to keep your portions small.

Have one bite. No more. No less. That’s all.

(I know, let’s save money by just skipping my order, and after you eat, I’ll kill and eat YOU, skinny bitch. No, I’m not bitter; I just want the creamy dressing, dammit.)

STUFF I REALLY WANT

And that’s not all. I want a lot of things. I want magazines to stop telling me that there is a swimsuit to flatter my figure. It’s a swimsuit. If it flattered my figure it would be called…NOT a swimsuit! Ain’t nobody invented a swimsuit to hide my figure flaws. And if someone DID invent a swimsuit that would flatter my body…why the hell wasn’t she curing cancer or spinal cord injuries?

I want

ONE SIZE FITS MOST

I want a ban on ONE SIZE FITS MOST labels. That is so much worse than ONE SIZE FITS ALL. We all know that’s a lie. But, ripping the seams in a ONE SIZE FITS MOST nightgown is just depressing.

Bigger than Most. I’m bigger than Most.

One size fit’s Most, but I’m bigger than Most.

Most gets my old clothes that I have outgrown.

Most is the best-dressed bitch I’ve ever known.

Oh, there are so many more verses there, but they’re so bad, I do not want to be the one to go there. I have enough to live down after the unfortunate rapping incident from a few seconds ago.

Rap and bluegrass in the first 15 minutes of the show. You do not want to leave early, ladies and gentlemen, or you may miss the opera portion of the evening. It ain’t over until… (crowd responds: the fat lady sings!) You got it. No, please, let me assure you…as well as a no nudity guarantee, I also assure you an opera-free evening, if I have anything to say about it. And, I have a lot to say, so fasten your seat belts. If you can. We have no seatbelt extender here, which is why we smart fat folks always carry our own.

THE PERMISSION SLIP

You're allowed to do it with the lights on. And, afterward, if you want to, you can walk to the bathroom without wrapping in a sheet to cover your backside. And, if your partner gets that look that says that he or she or they cannot appreciate a view that is not narrow, shallow and plastic, you are allowed to be the one to say 'This isn't really working for me.'

You're allowed to dance. At the public pool, in the bathing suit that suits you, after a spectacular cannonball, if you wish. Or at a bar, completely sober, or not quite. Naked or scantily clad in your living room, with the drapes almost closed. At a ballet audition, just to say you did it, and to give the judges interesting dinner conversation. And when people ask you 'What is it that you do?' you're allowed to look them in the eye and say 'I am a dancer"

And, though it's none of your concern what people think of you, you're allowed to assume they think you are magnificent.

Dear VIPete;

You think in straight lines that are
always on a mission to get somewhere.
Somewhere very specific and precise
and sensible and never at a
loss for logic.
It's straightforward, this process, but
not always user-friendly
(which you like because
what the befuddled masses avoid
makes for shorter lines.
No crowds, no clutter).

My thoughts are curvier.
They're doing cartwheels and scenic-routes and curlicues and
getting stuck in parade traffic,
borrowing a hat and horn and skipping along for awhile
to inaudible beats,
and then swerving into...

oh, look, I think maybe it's a poem.

And when poem-minded girls
wallpaper the empty Altoids tins
with scraps of last month's O mag,
and Astronomy Today (yours),
they forget about
checking the oil
and the tire pressure.

Just so you know:

I know that you are extraordinary
just for putting up with me in your space.
And the space you have conceded to
fancy pillows we don't really sleep on.

People with brilliant brains
don't always tolerate
the fanciful,
but you! You...

Thank you.

Thank you for pretending
that an orange and blue striped dining room
makes perfect sense.

Thank you for noticing the wild tiger lilies
and thinking about how much I would love them, and then
wading out into unidentified weeds with a pocket knife
to hack down the perfect bouquet,
protected flora laws be damned!

Thank you for remembering that
sometimes when a nine year old wants the real brand,
seeing her smile about breakfast cereal is
more important than
buying the logical generic and
being the smart saver that you are.

Thank you for a fantastical
baby blue bike
with real fenders,
and a wicker basket,
and foot brakes
(even though,
"Who spends that kind of money on
a bike that doesn't even have gears?").

Thank you for knowing without ever even being told
that when I'm taking my bath at night
(for which you often light the candles! Are you real?!)
it's the perfect time for you to watch
Adam Sessler ('s dumb shoulder pads)
and Morgan Webb ('s obnoxious boobs).
Or Cleveland Brown and that pointless, confusing bear.

Zillions and Brazilians.
That's how many things I could list here.
Twelve brown Brazilians.

There is no proper logical place to end this.
But, it's (sort of like) a poem,
and it's from my brain,
so you already know that logic really isn't involved, right?

I hope you can appreciate it anyway.
If I were in your brain,
I'd write it in some kind of quadratic equation,
or ASCII code, or something,
and you would understand it immediately,
and it would be so beautiful it would bring a tear to your eye.

But all I have is words.
Lots of cluttery,
silence-polluting (well...screen-polluting),
fancy, no-need-for-that words.

And more love, admiration, and gratitude
than words could ever, ever convey.
There just aren't words for that in any mortal language.

So, maybe you're right even about words.
Sometimes, they just don't make sense.

But, I love you anyway,
and just wanted to
try to let you know.

:)

DOPE

It occurs to me that maybe this thing that you can’t stop doing
has nothing to do with weak character.
Maybe not a single thing at all to do with original sin,
demonic oppression,
gross laziness,
or your piteous lack of self-control.

What if it has to do with being human,
primate,
mammal,
vertibral,
carbon-based,
sentient?

What if it has to do with the irrefutable fact that
our brains are wired to do things
without our conscious permission,
because it’s the only way such complex organisms can
do everything we must,
and inherent in that complexity are glitches,
because perfectly-functioning machines are the
business of Hollywood fantasy,
not life on this planet?

We have these beautiful, grotesque, inscrutable brains
that fire up limbically when primal needs must be met
and cerebrally for the times when options are appropriate,
especially in we who have evolved
into analytical beings
(which we must, of course,
to beat ourselves silly
over behaviors that
our cats just plain old revel in).

It’s just the way we are.
Driven by
sometimes dueling,
sometimes collaborating
nervous and endocrine systems,
our brains firing signals to guide our behaviors,
based on the chemicals flooding our bodies,
and making our choices seem
very limited, indeed.

Maybe it has to do with
your brain being wired and fired a little bit
differently
than the brains of people
untouched by addictive tendencies.

Maybe the size of that entire group is hyperbolized anyway,
since most of us hide
what controls us for as long as we can,
erroneously assuming we are alone and
shun-worthy.

But don't we all have the
neurons firing signals to our brains,
and neurotransmitters communicating and
creating neural pathways that become
mighty bridges over time?

Mighty, mighty hard-to-tear-down bridges,
even with the biggest of psychic bulldozers,
so amazing is the power of our brains.

We all have the dopamine rush.
Were amygdalic,
basal ganglianic,
electrically-charged,
synaptically triggered,
fueled and re-fueled by the
dopamine rush.

The dopamine rush.
It makes your brain feel good
when you travel those mighty neural bridges in
the way you’ve set them up to be traveled
by the behaviors you’ve come to even predict in yourself,
albeit long after your reptilian brain,
(I call mine Liz)
already knew you’d be indulging in this way.

There’s a reason your mother
calls the hippies
‘dope fiends’,
but she probably doesn’t know that
she is one too.

Maybe she doesn’t know about the dopamine fix of overspending,
she only knows that it makes her feel good
to head to the mall when dad calls to say
he won’t be home for supper.

He won’t be home for supper because
the gambling boat dopes out his mind
and comes even before family…until the guilt,
which magically goes away with a shot or two
of Jack.

The cynical bartender knows,
but he doesn’t care because he's watching the clock,
counting the minutes until he can get home
to his porn girls,
who are so much easier to deal with than
real women who want real things.
Besides, it's so much more of a rush this way,
that real women don’t do much for his libido these days.

He never has to look into the eyes of the
girls on the screen,
but if he did, he wouldn’t see much.
Most of them only make the movies after a
snort, or a swallow, or a needle in the arm, because
this job…even THIS job is worth it for the dope.
The dope.

And the man who made them stars
thought he’d only make a movie or two,
until the paychecks rolled in,
smelling like freedom from the welfare days of his youth,
and now he couldn’t stop if he tried.

His little girl stays with her grandmother most nights
while he’s working,
and doesn’t mind much because
most of the time she can find
Oreos and ice cream bars and Mountain Dew
in grandma’s kitchen,
and when she takes them to her room and eats them while watching TV,
she doesn’t really think about missing dad.

And, so, I’m thinking that
maybe we’re all really
very much the same.

Whether we challenge our
human tendency toward screwing it all up
with the ridiculously hard first step of
telling the truth to someone we love,
showing up in a musty church basement and
saying our name out loud,
going to a grain elevator for a first weigh-in on a scale that won’t break,
making the shut-off-the-internet call,
cutting up the credit card,
or checking in with our suitcase
at the front desk...

We all have our dope.

And, I’m thinking that maybe,
instead of a curse,
we could start seeing it as
another thing that makes us very much like
everybody else we've ever met.

And, maybe, it’s one more reason to
reach out our hand to
the nearest fellow-fienders we encounter,
and tell them that they are not alone.

And ask for help when we need it.

And hold on to each other’s hands
as though our fragile, flawed,
marvelous, miraculous,
incredible, one-and-only
lives depend on it.

Because, maybe they do.

The Girl With the Secret

I found this crumply piece of paper in Kadison's backpack today. She's agreed to let me share it's contents with you. She thinks it's odd that I would want to share an unfinished play, but I love it SO MUCH exactly the way it is that I don't even care if it never gets finished. Of course, when she DOES finish it, I'll share the whole thing. Here's the preview.
By the way, the only editing I've done is punctuation and format, to make it a little more easily readable. Enjoy!

THE GIRL WITH THE SECRET

By Kadison Lentz

Narrator: Once upon a time, there was a little girl. She had a secret.

Rodney (shouting from audience. Audience does not expect him to be there): SUCH AS...??

Narrator: Uh, well...not time to tell you yet, but...she's a zombie.

Rodney: NO SHE ISN'T!

Narrator (to the audience): Sorry, there. I think he has the wrong story in mind.

Rodney: EAT MUSH AND DIE, YOU FILTHY DIRTBAG!

Narrator: Ahem. She had just lost a tooth, but not yet told anybody...

STAY TUNED, DRAMA FANS! :)

How I see it right this minute. Hurry. It changes.

A couple of years, ago, I plopped a bowl of Spaghettios down in front of Kadison for lunch one day, and she didn't eat them. This is a newsflash item, in case you were wondering. My kid never met a bowl of Spaghettios she didn't like.
This day, however, she didn't even pick up her spoon. Didn't touch them. Just stared.
After getting drinks, or whatever mom-like thing I was doing, I sat down with her, and noticing her odd behavior, I said , "Kadi, why aren't you eating?"
She immediately responded, "The voice in the Spaghettios says, 'Don't even think about it.'"
Um...okay...?
I responded with my typical compassion. "Fine, then that leaves more for me." I scooted her bowl over to myself and stuffed a heaping spoonful into my mouth.
It was the most rotten, rancid, disgusting, toxic thing I have ever had the misfortune of experiencing.
I have no idea how Spaghettios go bad. But, I will never forget what Spaghettios-gone-bad tastes like! I never spit anything out so undignified-ly fast in my LIFE!
My guru-child found this highly amusing. "Told ya. You need to listen better, mom."
I thought of this story today when a friend sent me a message saying that it 'hurts her spirit' to see me post things about my 'inner voice' or 'the universe' when I must really mean 'God', or, better yet, 'Jesus'.
I thanked her for her comment, and told her she'd inspired my next blog!

Here's the thing.:
Call it God if you want to. Call it Jesus, Mohammed, Allah, Buddha, or Fannie May. Call it The Universe. Intuition. Higher Self. The Tao of Winnie the Pooh. Inner Voice. Your dead Uncle Filmore.

The Voice in the Spaghettios does not care.

It is only Pure Love.

It's really just that simple.

Maybe I can't possibly be cuter?

Anyone who wears denim knows that there is a mostly unexplainable fine line between a perfect find, and perfectly WRONG. I don't know what it is, but we all know right and wrong when we see it, where our denimwear is concerned.
Well, today I found THE perfect denim jacket at Salvation Army. It made me look much cuter than nature intended. I giggled for several minutes at my cute self in the mirror. The cost? $6.50.
Then, I found brand new green jeweled sandals that made me gasp, and fit like they were made for my feet. $2.00.
When I giddily got them, along with my purchases for Pete and Kadison, to the check-out line, I knew immediately and unquestionably that I was meant to put them on the return rack and let someone else be delighted with them.

And I did.
I'm not saying I'm not still thinking about them. I'm devoting a damn BLOG to them!
But, I know they weren't meant to be mine.
And I don't know why.
I just know that my inner voice told me very clearly that these things were meant to bless someone else.

Don't get me wrong. I am fully aware that I am NOT that unselfish! I deserve no kudos for my self-restraint, my selflessness, my intuitive giving.

Pul Eeez.
Try to take my mint Oreos, beotch.

I just know that the things I've been working on learning are creating changes in my universe that I cannot deny.
I do not understand how my thrift-shop AHA moment has anything to do with anything. But I know that it happened, that I am listening, and that I am living in profound gratitude.

And whatever chick is going to be wearing my jacket and shoes must need more help in the cute department than I do.
I'm just sayin'.

I could fill several blogs with the interesting things I've been learning lately, but I know they are meant mostly for me, and anyone else would be too bored to read it all.

But, I don't think it's just happenening to me! Anyone else having growing bliss or growing pains lately? Tell me stuff, please! I'm a SPONGE! :)

Flyin' the shutthehellup flag.

When Kadison was a toddler, just learning to identify and name shapes, 'square' came out 'queer'. And, she had difficulty distinguishing a 'queer' from a rectangle. I almost ran the car off the road the day she saw a flag and said, "Wook, Mama! Queer fag!"
I kept that story alive for her, wisely or not. Being a budding free-thinking rational mind, she now says this with great irony, and especially loves being able to say it when she sees a rainbow flag. She got her own pride flag out of her closet today and said it; "Wook, Mama! Queer fag!" just out of habit. Kind of an insider thing between us, I suppose.
Her two visiting friends looked at each other in horror, her benevolent intent having not quite translated. "Hey, that's mean! We have a cousin who is a lesbian, and we don't like it when people call gay people names!"
Deep breath. A lot of protesting and embarrassed explanations and backtracking from Kadison.
And, a lot of thinking by her mom.
I'm not going to ask my daughter to stop saying 'queer fag'. We get the joke. We're in on it. We stand firmly on the side of love. Having no question about it, we have lost our sensitivity to certain aspects of the silliness of making it an issue.
But, here's what I have to get into my head:
If I'm allowed to use words for my gay and lesbian friends that would be unkind in other contexts, and I'm allowed to call my girlfriends 'bitches' because I'm one, too, and I'm allowed to lovingly call someone a fat-ass because a lifetime of weight struggle has desensitized me to the word...then...
I can NOT EVER roll my eyes or shake my head, or in any other way pass judgement on African-Americans who call each other 'nigga'.
I don't have to like it.
I just have to shut my fat-ass bitch fag-hag fomo self up and deal with it.

To the hawk who stole the baby rabbit from the nest in my front yard

When the mother rabbit returned to her nest, she screamed.

It was the same scream that came from the body of the tiny offspring I helplessly watched you swoop down upon minutes earlier.

I do not wonder that the two different cries of agony were identical in intensity.

I have to believe that you, too, are a mother.

To not hate you irrationally for an impulse over which you have no more control than breathing, I choose to imagine you feeding your bald, pink, hatchlings.

And, in this kinship, I become as much you as I am the agonized mother rabbit.

For the good of my young, I might just be capable of tearing the flesh of another's precious child, not of my own blood or kind, while pleading, "Forgive me, forgive me. It had to be done".

So, care for your babies now and be at peace.

My baby is safe and fed, so I will weep for the mother whose nest is empty.

What scares me

Am I worth it? How
can I contribute? Do you
regret saying yes?

The freak flags flew.

It's been a few day! So much for being a daily blogger. :)

Thousands and thousands.
Sweat, glitter, lipstick, more sweat,
and nothin' but love!

Pride Parade was, once again, such a life-affirming experience. I'm so proud to share this day every year with my baby girl. Pictures to come, I promise...
The contingency of churches who show up to march on the side of love always choke me up a little. It's just a beautiful sight. As do the military veterans (some of them disabled from war, yet would not have been deemed worthy to serve in the first place had they asked and told!). The PFLAG group (parents and friends, supporting their GLBTQ loved ones). The overwhelming feeling of love that is poured out among thousands of total strangers is unparallelled.
Every year, once we stake our claim on a spot along the parade route, we become insta-family with the people standing near us (okay, near is not quite the word...it's VERY crowded, and there is much forced intimacy and sweat-sharing). They become Kadi-guardians. Seriously, people ALWAYS end up looking out for my daughter! They catch beads for her, put them on her, make sure she has a prime spot for short people, catch and fill her bag with candy, make sure she's sun-screened, and hydrated. They even screen the things being thrown and confiscate the condoms, lube pouches, and I love cock buttons BEFORE they get to my baby. :) Seriously. Not one thing she shouldn't be exposed to gets by these people. Every year.
I cannot truly convey the beauty that is my yearly pilgrimage to BoysTown, Chicago. I just know that it's one of the most important things I do for myself, for my daughter, and for the spreading of love in my community.
So happy today. Really, really, just very happy. :)

GODDESS

In a sacred place of honor

in the temple that is my home

stands a gleaming, powerful image of

The Venus of Willendorf,

proud and naked,

her unbound breasts resting on her

fully rotund belly, blissful and heavy

with the ripeness of all life

and the sweet milk that sustains it,

having no apologies to make for the

fat fullness of her thighs,

grown strong and proud from the

carrying of this wide expanse of hips,

and a rump the roundness of which

has enchanted poets and priests

since before time.

The Wise Goddess-Child

who is my daughter

calls this image The Mommy Doll,

and she has no interest in the notion

that maybe this lush feminine form

was not fashioned to look like me.

How, then, can I face this child

and not stand tall and BE A GODDESS

and in whatever size I am

be content?
I do not need

minimizing panels in my panties

and wires in by bra

to be divine and full of beauty.

Full of beauty.

Not starving.

Not starving for affection, approval,

appreciation, confirmation,

conformity, or anonymity.

But fully at home in the body of

this woman

who takes up her share of space

without saying I'm sorry,

and still leaves room enough in the world for

you.

So, to you,

and to me,

and to the Wise Goddess-Child who is my daughter,

I say,

fearlessly and wonderously are we made

in the image of

She Who is Most Holy,

and the

blasphemy

of body hatred

has no place

in this temple.

From Sarah, with love,

The idea of peace in the Middle-east is never far from my heart.
I was inspired to write this letter after hearing about a group of Christian, Muslim, and Jewish mothers who have formed a close-knit spiritual study group in Chicago. It intrigues me to wonder how different history might have been, had the wives and mothers had more say in the direction of their lives, and the lives of their children...


My Dear Hagar,
I hate it here since you’ve been gone. I ache from missing you. I worry every second, and I pray to the Goddess that you are safe. And Ishmael! Oh, my heart hurts to think of how confusing this must be for him. Isaac and I both miss him so much! Please give him our love.
Oh, hell, I’ve even been praying to Jehovah, in case Abraham’s god turns out to be the only true god, like all the men think. *sigh* Now I have no one with whom to whisper such heresies and laugh.
Do you know that, for the record, Abraham is claiming that he was 100 and I was 90 when you and I became pregnant? No, I am not kidding! This desert wind and sun has not been kind to anyone’s skin, but...90?? Please. I can’t possibly look a day over 70, right? Ah, well. It’s a good thing Isaac did come along when he did. I’m beginning to feel the changes of Crone-hood in my body. Maybe that makes me 45? 50? Hard to tell. All the seasons blend so seamlessly here and one month is just like the last.
We do all miss having your youthful beauty around the place (Abraham can’t bring himself to say it, but I see the sadness in his eyes).
Poor Abraham. Maybe he really does feel more than a century old. I’d hate to think he’s lying on purpose. Jehovah would definitely not approve.
If I had a place to go, Hagar, I would leave. He tries to be a good man, but do you know that, in the name of his God, he mutilated my son’s manhood, and he quite nearly sacrificed him on an altar of prayer!?
I do think he’s gone a little crazy with fear of this ’god’. I never sleep more than a few feet from my son anymore, and never without a dagger under my pillow. It’s no way to live. But, I know in my heart that he’s not a bad man, just fearful.
It’s just that my fears are of him, and that makes sense. Fear of some omni-present, omni-powerful, beastly god who demands death and dismemberment of our children? That, I cannot fathom.
Anyway, my dear, the day he sent you away was the worst day of my life, but likely the best possible thing for you.
He tells people it was because of my jealousy, instead of his own. He says I envied his relationship with you, because he cannot bear to tell the truth that you and I loved each other at the expense of his ego. His pride will not allow that. He cannot ever say aloud that the deep love between women is a thing more powerful than anything he’s experienced, except for his fear of god, and that he had no idea how to behave in the presence of such joy and freedom. It terrified him!
I do feel sorry for him. Don’t hate him, Hagar. He is the best leader he knows how to be.
I pray that you have found a community that loves you for your unique gifts. I pray the same for Ishmael.
May the future find us together again, somehow, watching our boys continue to grow in love and brotherhood to be the kind of men we both wish their father had the freedom to be.
Who knows...maybe the prophecy that Abraham will be the ’Father of Nations’ has come true in our boys! Here’s a prayer to The Divine Mother that they come back together in the peace and love for which their earthly mothers ache. I want us to be sharing grandkid- and great-grandkid duties when we are truly 90 or 100!
I love you forever!

Sarah

and he dosnt soport gay peopel!

Another flashback I feel like sharing:

Thursday, August 07, 2008

Last night while I was packing, Kadison was playing quietly in her room, supposedly helping pack a few art supplies... I don't even remember her going outside (alarming, I know...but this is not a story of fear or alarm, so disregard that...it's a safe neighborhood, and she has great lungs and even better judgement).
Anyway...I went outside this morning to leave for work, and there was the HUGE round head of Barack Obama taped to the inside of the back window. She'd cut it out from Time Magazine, and put it in the car as a subtle voting suggestion for our fellow motorists. Along with it was a hand-written sign on Easter-yellow paper that read : "Prezidint Bush lide about the war and he dosnt soport gay peopel!"
I know she's suggestable at seven, and if I'd been a Republican (:::::shudder:::::), there'd probably be a McCain head flapping in my car right now.
But, honestly...she's just so freaking smart, that I'm not even sure that would be true. This is a kid with a really good head on her shoulders. And a really big round cheesing Obama head behind her carseat.

My name on a grain of rice

Once, at a theme park in the Ozarks, a man painted my name on a grain of rice and stuck it inside blown glass and put it on a chain.
I never wore it because the god of my youth frowned upon physical adornments.
It didn't matter, because I wouldn't have worn it anyway.
I was sad at the insignificance of my name on something that could easily fall into a crack in the asphalt and never be noticed.
It seemed very metaphorical and deep to my angst-y fourteen-year-old self, so full of self-doubt and questions...

I found that rice while I was looking through boxes to get rid of this morning.
I didn't even know I had kept it all these years.
I sat with it for a very long time, remembering that lonely scared girl.
Those old feelings of insignificance are sometimes just as real, and always just as much an illusion as ever.
I wonder about the man who chose to learn how to paint on rice, when he could have chosen murals.
I wonder if we all sometimes feel like our contributions are miniscule, or that they should be, so as to not take up too much space and have to say 'pardon me' to someone more worthy of the space in which we are standing.
Knowing how sad and small those thoughts can make someone feel, I want to look the people I love in the eye and tell them that they matter.
I want someone to tell me the same thing.
Most importantly, I want to look in the mirror and say it with a straight face.

Old blogs are useful tools of encouragement!

I'm only reposting this one because the massage school as 'wishful thinking' reference makes me smile. It also encourages me to keep talking about my dreams...they tend to put on skin that way! :)

Saturday, October 11, 2008
Stuff I might be getting ready to do with my evening alone:


I might just crawl into bed and sleep starting in a little while...
I (really!) might go to the fitness center and treadmill my ass for a mile...

I might write a zillion blogs, and keep writing all night long...
I might get distracted by some good free porn, and bust out my synthetic dong...

I might read my new Reader's Digest, although Rebecca says it's run by the Mormons...
I might see what TiVo saved of Oprah and Suze Orman...

I might organize Kadison's closet and take some stuff to the GoodWill box...
I might get dressed and go to WalMart, because I need winter socks...

I might redo my nail polish, and pluck stray body hairs...
I might get out the Resolve and get those weird spots off the stairs (okay, probably not)...

I might shrivel my fingers and toes in a long hot bubble bath...
I might feel guilty that Kadison is away, and I'm not helping her with her math...

Speaking of guilt, I might spend some more time thinking of how to be a better girlfriend...
I might say something really poetic right now, since the only ryhme I can come up with is 'whirlwind' (which was a stretch, anyway)...

I might look up massage school websites and do some wishful thinking...
I might feed Toady and Venus, to keep them from death and stinking...

I might eat too much ice cream straight out of the carton...
I might...okay, I refuse to dishonor myself with what I was just about to type about ice cream and fartin'...

I might answer some way overdue emails to people I really miss...
I might look up some recipes, since I cook now, in my new-found domestic bliss...

I might try to figure out how to download pictures from my new phone...
I might just sit and do NOTHING but revel in being alone...

I might experiment with my new curls, since I no longer get mistaken for a dyke...
I might bruise my ass and hoo hoo by taking a ride on my bike...

Speaking of bike, I might do something to celebrate the gorgeous night...
I might admire my fading flip flop tan lines, as I quickly morph back to white...

I might wish I could end this wittily and neatly, but I'm not sure how...
And it's my night to do whatever the hell I want, so I'm just stopping now...

Summer sleevelessness dilemma

At a sink, in the Wal-Mart bathroom:

Small boy, maybe 4-ish, with shoulder-length, traffic-cone-orange dreadlocks: "Why are your arms all wobbly?"

Disembodied voice from inside stall: "JADEN! Get over here!"

Me: "Because I have a lot of fat on my body. Plus a lot of extra skin from when I had even more fat."

Disembodied VFIS: "I'm warning you, Jaden..."

[Long pause, staring]

Jaden: "Do you have extra wobbly skin like that all over the place?"

DVFIS: "JA-DEN MICH-AEL!!!"

Me: "Yeah, I do."

[Longer pause, with unblinking staring]

Jaden: "You should really use all that extra skin to try to get taller."

DVFIS: "Lawd ham mercy, I ain't never comin' outta here."

'Ku for now :)

A few haiku(s) for the morning:

Impossible to
remain invulnerable
while open to love

Being open to
the possibility of
betrayal...is love

SlimFast for breakfast.
In Africa, they love fat
chicks. I'm moving there.

Golden

Conclusion-jumping.
If it were an Olympic
event, I'd win gold.

Slacker blogger...making up for it

Still believing that
gratitude always precedes
the miraculous

If the only prayer
I ever pray is thank you,
that will be enough

Reverence for this
matters more than my belief
today about God





Haven't been here in a few days! This every-day commitment isn't turning out to be so simple, some days. Kinda like those commitments to find the point of gratitude in all things...and put only into my body proper fuel...and to move my body every day with joyful intent...
Yeah, impressive words. :) I'm good at talking the talk.
I'm re-committing today, once again. I'll have to do it a million times in the future!
I'm re-committing to gratitude, most of all.
Re-committing to using the SoFar process where food and movement are concerned. S.O.F.A.R. Stop. Observe. Forgive. Accept. Re-commit.
So far...so good. And, just for today...I am SO very thankful! :)

I've been thinking a lot about Boston this week. The city, not the band. I'm usually packing up to go there about this time in June. I chaperone a coming-of-age youth group trip for my awesome church there every other year (heh heh... Only those nutty Unitarian Universalists would trust me with their chil'ren for a whole week!). This year, I'm getting a little nostalgic, since we've postponed the trip to NEXT June.
Ah, the memory of how painful it was to walk last time! This weight journey is intriguing. SoFar. Thankful. :)
Here's my old blog from the first day of te trip 2 years ago:

Saturday, June 16, 2007
This week I'll be pahking my cah in the Hahvahd yahd.
It's 4:45AM, and I'm getting ready to leave for O'Hare, to catch a flight to Boston. I miss my baby already. A week is too long. I'm starting to get a little excited. Having done this Boston-trip-chaperoning gig two years ago, I know I will have a wonderful time. But a part of me is still very reluctant. Ah, Motherguilt. Last night, my baby and I discussed the fact that this Boston trip is one SHE wil eventually make herself when she's entering 9th grade, but it will be without me. That one of the points of this 'coming-of-age' adventure is taking a big trip with no parent along, and being responsible for your own behavior and decisions. She said, "I already know how to be responsible and make good decisions, so it won't matter if they let you come along anyway. I'll talk to the manager about making an exception". I explained that when she is the age of the kids taking this trip, she will probably not want me to come along. She said, "Well, you already embarrass the hell out of me, but I've learned to deal with it, so why would that change?" My child. The 6 year old teenage philosopher. So, anyway...I'll be going to the beach (by the way...from the looks of the CraigsList site, those Boston boys dig the BBWs...Not that I'll have time to sample them, but I needed to arm myself with that information to psyche myself up for wearing a bathing suit), Salem (yay! Pagan Mecca!), every day walking by Fenway Park (snore), climbing the Bunker Hill Monument (oh, my legs are already having PTSD pains from the memory and anticipation of that), Harvard campus walk-through (why, I do not know, but I'm sure we'll go there). So, what can I bring you home? Ben Affleck is already spoken for.

For my wonderful little family

A few of Today's haiku


They just don't sleep well
when you're gone; our scared, confused,
restless, sad, smart cats.


Girl-time in the big
bed. Hope she didn't notice
how much I missed you.


Wow. Her sheet-hogging
reminds me so much of you,
I'm over it now.


Her waking smile says
she loved this. Still, she whispers,
"When's Pete coming home?"